Ah, her
I'll spare her name for the sake of mystery
But this feeling that is stirred up is quite real
I'm pretty shook, I can't deal

Where do I start?
Her eyes, of course
Eyes as calming as the ocean tides
They pull at mine, drawing me in
Making me want to be by her side
Dark brown, making me melt like brownies

Hair like fire
Beautifully gleaming in the sunset
Wavy curls, waving at my heart
Capturing me in a trance
Oh, she makes me want to dance

That smile
More beautiful than the Nile
Her laugh is a soothing melody
Kissing her lips seems to be my remedy

Oh how I wish I could with her
To show her how much she is worth
Worth more than what she's been told
By both young and old
Worth more than how men look at her

She is a precious keepsake
A woman to cherish
One to take to the lake
And listen to her favorite songs

Her whole being is a song
A sweet melody that lifts my spirits
All day long
her.

As we sit down to our dinners,
as we open our romance books,
people die.

We sip our water;
their guts spill open.
We study our notes;
their planes crash.

We live;
they die.
We breathe;
they suffocate.

We are testaments to chance,
to luck, to possibility.

We are not products of God.

We are blind goats trotting on our path
before we perish, suddenly,
and vanish into death.

Faries live in the hawthorn,
Gnomes live under rocks,
Trolls stay under bridges,
And nessie’s stay in the Loughs.

Pookas come close to farmers,
Changlings come to babes,
Spirits in the mirrors,
Kelpies in the waves.

The little folk are trouble,
In the heat they bring the cold,
They trick the weary traveler,
With pots of magic gold.

They whisper on the breeze,
While hidden in the mist,
Without them doing anything,
Remind you they exist.

They write about themselves,
So we don’t think they’re real,
They carved the lines in oghm,
magic words in ancient ghael.

Yet still we leave them gifts,
Bits of whisky & pooka’s share,
We have never ever seen one,
Yet we know that they are there.