ACROSS AZURE SEA, ON EMERALD ISLE

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 sweet talkers
Make art, but nobody thinks them losers
They are met with praise, not doubts nor knockers
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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© 2003 by Michael J. Farrand