photo: sharon auberle
On St. Patrick’s Day, a True Confession
by Marilyn L. Taylor
Oh Lord, how I’d love to be Irish!
The Irish are nothing but hot,
and they’ve gotten incredibly stylish—
but Irish is what I am not.
My name doesn’t translate to Irish,
nor start with a “Mc” or an “O”,
so no matter how Molly Maguire-ish
I’m feeling, it’s hopeless, I know.
But I’m dying to fib just a little
for maybe a day or a week,
and pound the bodhran, play the fiddle,
and break into brogue when I speak;
I’d tipple with Nuala and Dylan,
I’d blather with Eamon and Shaun,
and then (if the spirit is willin’)
go guzzle more Guinness till dawn!
Of course it’s a little bit sneaky;
in fact, I would feel like a dork
neglecting to mention
pretending that I was from
But Lord, how I’d love to be Irish,
be one of those glamorous Celts—
now that everything Emerald Isle-ish
Is cooler than anything else!
~ first published in the Irish American Post