“Riffing on the Licker” by Randall Stephen Hall

Not fit for the licker

You give to cows to chew and suck.

Helps pass the time

Makes me think of thon things

As they pass their auld muck.
Now they’re out in the fields

With a touch of the green.

St. Patricks likes pints of

That beer that’s gone green..
Passes time with St. Brigid

Oh she of the milk.

With her on his lap

oh how they do quilt.

Talking and joshing and fooling around.

They might get slung out

As the sun goes to sit down.
To pull out his fiddle

And brandish a tune.

The little dog barks

As in comes the moon.

To celebrate Patrick and Brigid herself

A comely fine girl amongst all this fine wealth.

Collected around her at Licker Ó Splits

Along with musicians and munchers

And gits.
And as the day spread for Patrick
Is brought to a close

Like a ring on your finger

As plain as your nose.

The licker can wait til’ i’ve had all me greens

My spuds, all the bacon, them roasties and beans.

The pudding, the custard, Pavlova and cream.

I’ll sit myself down for ten winks i will dream.
But I’ll go to the licker much later I think
And there they will pour me the finest of drink.

I’ll lift this auld ale to kiss my dry lips.

I’ll notice St. Brigid, oh her with the hips.

I’ll nod to St. Patrick and he may nod back.

Life is real strange, I just breathe for the craic.
If you find me at twelve  just bent round a post

Hangin’ like a shirt just made for a ghost.

Ten sheets to the wind with some change on the ground.

Handle me real gentle when you lift me on down.

Jesus I’ve tanked up,

Red Deisel’s me name.

My air break’s kaput as I’ve rolled down the drain.

St. Patrick and Brigid said they’d give me a lift

But here I am now, I’m down in the . . .

Shift me, oh shift me and take me on home.

And there I will lie like a fool all alone.

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