Irish Eamond

An old Irish man once told me......  
A sweet spot is a place.  
Where fairies pass over unseen.  
Magic passes over too.  
 
He looked like a sweet old fella. But!  
Standing behind you, he'd cast spells.  
Full of Jiggery pokery & clownish too.  
A fan of Crowley & other bunkum.  
 
Even now I miss the old fella,  
Wish I'd been more relaxed, back then.  
Listened to his tales of leprechauns.  
Fairies pixies & puffs n stuff.  
 
If someone asked him, so what do you do?  
I'm a performing artist with a twinkle in his eye.  
He swam in the sea, when old not to by 3.  
Came up 9 furlongs along at the Warrior square.  
 
His daughter arranged the funeral.  
In a paupers woodland grave.  
Upright facing east he was buried, .  
As to his burial request.  
 
Memory can still recall times spent together.
Of a birdman event the pier.
Access by ladders via the upper bowels.
To the the top of pier.
 
Some planks laid out as pirates yous to do.
Eamond was there dressed like a clown.
like the performing artist he claimed.
Wings of bamboo, tissue & string.  
 
We watched as each birdman jumped
to cheers from the crowd.
breaking others records by feet or inches.
 
Eamond was flapping his wings.  
Bobby dazzler eejit he looked. His turn now to go.
The pixie in him believed he could actual fly.
he was flapping his wings strolling along the plank.
 
He stepped off and promptly fell like a stone.
like a comic clown committing suicide.
limping below like a dying swan, the rescue boat came in.
I saw him next on ambulance bed rolling a spiff.
 
Three ribs broken. They gave him a prize.
Bandaged up to receive his prize.
Wanting no trouble, in case he tried to sue.
The fondest memory I like to recall.

Was when he spoke of sweet spots.  
Where fairies pass over... unseen &.  
Magic passes over too.