The Irish, even
before any one of them
got slave-or-saint named
Patrick,
have
always been
too wholly a people
to regard nature as
capable of being
"profaned."
So they say fuck a lot,
they fuck a lot. Not all
of them! But enough do, potato
babies rise in rows well ho'ed
and orderly or rude, unruly
rose to squall, bawl justly
and lustily and once
they get up to it,
eventually row with
others. And so are seized
upon, caught up and taught by
hook and crook, by brook streaming,
meadow rolling or lying like wilde
in some still, wet gutter, haloed
by reflections of stars, beaming
like an aesthetics expert critiquing
heavens and finding all wanting.
By such hardest and easiest lying
and well and poorly laid lessons, in
time (and by its nick!) they are given
by nurture
one prettiest, cutest
accent in the world
by which to say fuck,
or,
without shame
or stain of hypocrisy!
Other things.
Because of this, th'
Irish have one beautiful,
worldwide reputation for
fools to believe, or
if they go,
finally
to set foot on firm Eyre
itself, spy out its pots, nooks
and misty rainbows oe'r
all and sundry,
they know better.
Or worse for themselves.
The Irish, o the greatest part
of them, do not mind your
fucking slander much. As
you've just kindly taught
them the worth of your
fucking mind! Or some
of its fucking contents,
right enough.
Though
many of them,
kind enough might presume
to conclude as a courtesy,
a charity: you may
have just popped out of it!
For a bit. Sure and all, why
wouldn't you?
Being you and all.
No accent can truly
be faked by anyone
not a professional film, stage
or other screen actor, but
particular accents
would be even unwiser to try,
lest ye be caught up in the enchantment
of some laughing lass or laddie's
disenchanted-by-you
eyes. Ire
knows no particular tongue
when one's Irish is got up. It
knows them all too well - and
none too wise and fair!
Aye, that it isn't,
much.
Keen, sad
mirthful look.
What was it you'd expect? You
ass
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