March 17

Was supposed to be
Some kind of ticker tape parade.
Flash of green in the bucket.

These Irish eyes smiled on you,
Your red beard
Smeared in Guinness foam,
Made them look away.

A staunch attitude
Fueled by your stubborn lineage
Wouldn't let me move on,
To the blonde in the flat cap.

Pushing through, this Tuesday crowd,
I watched you knock over
Two chairs, a table and
An elderly gent.

Despite my dread of your
Inevitable mark,
I laughed at the comedic timing
Of your big footed ballerina dance.

Clumsily you landed at my table,
The sister in law, shocked,
But humoured to the tits,
Slapped you on the back.

'Sit buddy, and finish your drink,
Then hit the road.
Cause this one here (pointing to me)
Will eat you alive.'

A sad look beamed my way.
A sheepish smile,
I did display, shrugged my shoulders
Who am I to disagree?