It's a regular scandal
It's a plot low down and mean
That a body born Irish,
Lacks the Poetry Gene;
There's been a mutation
In the souls born to rhyme
There goes the nation
The Irish in decline!
Once there were poets
Even children of nine
On Limerick's back streets
With tongues tipped divine;
Who spoke in such sweet songs
With wit in their voices
Now it's listening to brass gongs
With clueless word choices.
It's the fault of the Bureaucrats
The Ministry of Change
Those Computer Geek Satraps,
With their languages strange.
Now the boom is long over
And the techs on the dole
Though you may roll in clover,
Gone is your soul.
For the language of Shakespeare
Of Yeats, Bobbie Burns,
You've developed a tin ear,
For old Erin I yearn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem