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 Milwaukee
pretending
that I was from Cork
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
