Erin Go Bragh
I said, “Erin go bragh.”
That’s ‘bragh’ not ‘bra’.
Tell that drunken woman
To quit waving her bra
And flashing her titties.
Every year the same thing,
St Patrick’s Day in an Irish
Bar, ‘pub’ in the old country.
Buncha damn drunks here.
And everybody’s Irish today.
By now, I’m used to the
Polish and the black Irish.
But, it’s the goth-type Irish
That I’ve overlooked before.
What’s the matter with you?
No, we don’t pull the wings
Off of fairies and we never
Would roast our leprechauns.
Oy vey, Aaron. Please, man.
Not still another round?
How can a man raised on
Kosher wine drink so much
Irish whiskey and still stand?
Aha! There she is, me dream,
My red headed darlin’ with
The twinkle in her eye and
A smile to melt your heart.
Tonight, I would make my
Move, but, I’m so loaded
That I can’t talk, just drool.
And, I’ve a noticeable bit
Of half-dried vomit crusting
On the front of my shirt.
Better wait for another time.
But then, being Irish, herself,
Maybe she’s into party animals.
Horror Sleaze Trash 