Believe it or not went from ABBA to ABAB in “Aging Gracefully”. Try that sometime!
Might be a bit randy. No swearing, just randy. As in “Eew!”
Happy wearin o’ the green?
“Happy St. Patrick’s Day to you!”
“That’s your gleeful greeting for Christmas, Grinch.”
“Okay. How about ‘What a load of blarney’?”
“Not hardly uncomplimentary, that, you know?”
“Awright, how about ‘What a load of bulls…’”
‘Whoa! Not a value judgement here!”
“Kiss me, I’m Irish? Gonna pinch you, you’re not wearing green?”
“It’s having a bit of fun.”
“Maybe just something to act the maggot?”
“Another excuse to drink?”
“Speaking of which, how about we head over to O’Reilly’s and have some…”
“Tastes the same, never heard you turn down a brew.”
“What’s the point?”
“Bet you won’t find a single bar in all of Ireland serving green beer. It’s American tomfoolery.”
“Acting the maggot?”
“There ya go.”
“What it is, is getting in the spirit, you know?”
“Getting the spirits in you. Whyn’t’cha toss darts or something? Pants a Leprechaun.”
“Well, me and the lads are headed to O’Reilly’s. See ya later.”
I find as I get on in years,
It’s a struggle to stay cool.
Things oft confirm my morbid fears,
When they make me look the fool.
So prim and proper with each breath,
When I think that it’s a lock,
It will embarrass me to death,
What I find to my great shock.
One day, out walking for my heart,
I maintained a handsome stride.
I then set free an awesome fart,
Bent to tend a lace untied.
Off to church and hardly grumbled.
There ladies with song praised.
When then off-key my stomach rumbled,
They frowned with eyebrows raised.
I must take care when e’er I sneeze,
Masking facial ports real well.
If not, I make all strangers quease,
When more than droplets I expel.
In need to pee yet I was chipper,
Found facilities with ease.
But I left unzipped my zipper,
No intention there to tease.
From bad to worse a darkened splotch,
When at last I closed my fly,
With fingers felt my zipped-up crotch.
I had to wait for it to dry.
Out in the cold, for warmth I dash,
When my nose decides to drip.
It will make ice on my moustache,
If inside I do not zip.
Alas, when sitting down to nibble,
My behavior at its best,
All through the meal find I dribble,
Five courses on my vest.
My soup I know I shouldn’t slurp,
When I sit me down to dine.
But still there comes a righteous burp,
Which suggests the meal was fine.
My facial thatch I tend with flair.
In odd sites too fast it grows.
Worst of all that one dark hair,
That peeks from out my nose.
Oh yes, I see that as I age,
To expect things gone askew.
And when tomorrow turns the page,
To worry o’er what’s new.
© SP Wilcenski 2020