Finnegan's Ache

The Guinness freezes up your tongue
as it sends your guts to war,
a chorus from some rebel song
that rumbles from your core.

All's changing, all's enchanted games,
wherever the motley's worn,
which starts you chanting the honored names.
A terrible beauty is born.

You rant about the troubles, curse
the Orangemen, as you storm
through Dannyboy's eleventh verse.
At least it keeps you warm.

A final round of the Guiness stout.
You don't know where you are,
but you're keen to drive the English out
from this New York City bar.

© Paddy O'Furniture