If I die
let them carry me
to the shores of Ireland
where my forebears dug
honey from the looms
and bogs of that eldritch,
rolling green land, and roll me
in the green: down hills
and up dells until they got
tired of it. And then
my poor corpse
could rest wherever, I don't care
I'll be singing silently
by then, with the parts of me
that fell off in the rolling,
my eyes, possibly, a finger
or two - you know which
I could finally be at rest
in Ireland, where they're none
too fond of Americans like me
no more substantial a pinch of
Irish blood in my veins than in
a consumptive infant's diaper
that was not gross, it
was tragic, of the Irish kind
in which I specialize, trust me
it sings in my blood yet, O
Ireland, O home of souls
and tongues, licking
and ghosting about
being Irish
take me in
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