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Across azure sea, on Emerald Isle In peat-heated earthen huts on the hill Young Paddies scratch away on love poems while Bouzouki pickers sing in Gaelic trill A nation of red-haired, freckled bruisers Tough fighters, hard drinkers, and hot lovers Make art, but nobody thinks them losers Especially not Old Sod belovers Something quite different we find over here American sons by Irishmen sired Inculcated with progenitor fears To exist, must be gainfully hired Twin suppressors of Irish expression? Potato famine and Great Depression. |
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