'Tis Grand Being Irish Poem by Francie Lynch

'Tis true what they say,
May your glass be full,
I discovered the same
In a quaint Irish pub.

On leaving the evening
I pulled on my mac,
The wind was wet
And pushing my back.

Pushing may be
An understatement,
For it pushed so hard
My face met the pavement,
And the road rose up to meet me.

There wasn't a sun
To shine on my face,
The red burn on my skin
Was a shameful disgrace.

True, the road to home
Was all downhill,
But the rain that night
Cleared the doorsill.

So, there's plenty
Of work
For this man's hands,
For the luck of the Irish
Is a tourism scam.

As for being in heaven
A half hour ahead
Of Ole Lucifer knowing
That I am stone dead;
Well I'm sure he'll be keening
At the foot of my bed.

Da always said
Being Irish was grand,
If you're in North America
And not Ireland.