The village was alive in good ol’ Irish style

bagpipes blaring as people lined up to celebrate

along the crooked mile

finest Irish whiskey plentiful

among the poorest in the isle

The pubs overflowed into the street

the taps holding strong

brought some dance to the feet

of the the lads

 who stumbled a jig to an ol’ Irish song

Women & children & strangers alike

danced from the glen to the top of the dike

our Patrick the saint a man for all seasons

put the hub-bub in Dublin and gave our feast solid reason

they drank and they danced

along the moors into town

they danced with the Widow O’Leary & young Father Brown

Above Ireland in Heaven

even angels got caught up

with a bit of the ale as they danced in the pub

Father Morley O’Brien looked down from his spot

from on high next to Patrick

“the Irish may drink…but my angels cannot ! “

 ,he said…with a grin and a smile

and  he whispered a fog…..all over the isle

He covered the taverns & closed down the pubs

stifled the pipes n’ the drinkin’…the jigs and the hugs

“oh dear”, said the angels…” we drank quite enough!

must be O’ Brien…who cast down all this stuff “!

 The angels returned to the top of the cloud

with wings between their legs & headaches poundin’ loud

The fog it did linger…from Dublin to Dover

Father Morley O’brien …slowly lifted the fog

and the isle returned …to its jig and its grog

Obrien took aside each of the cherubs

“You’ve learned as I wish

Angels don’t belong in pubs

and don’t drink ..with the Irish “

 put a stop to the feast…till those angels got sober