There is a Burns night for the Scots
for reciting poetry
but nothing in the land of poets
across the Irish sea
there is no celebration
there are no special dates
no reciting any works
of William Butler Yates
No Sheamus Heaney day
No Kavanagh or Thomas Moore
no toasting the humble spud
the staple of the poor
no wise cracks of Oscar Wilde
written on a card
nothing of Samuel Beckett
a playwright and Bard
no words of Evan Bolland
Montague or Russell
Cecil Day Lewis gets a miss
no lyricism muscle
there is no passing of the Bushmills
no gastronomic treat
gathered round a fire
of kindling and peat
No comments:
Post a Comment