'Tis true what they say,
May your glass be half-full,
I discovered the same
In a quaint Irish pub.

On leaving that evening
I pulled on my mac,
The wind was wet
And pushing my back.

Pushing surely
An understatement,
It pushed so hard
My face met the pavement.
And I could hear Molly singing:
And the road rose up to meet me.

There was no sun
To blame for my face,
The burn on my skin
Was a shameless disgrace.

The road home that night
Was all downhill,
But the hard rain that night
Made it all seem uphill.

There's plenty
Of work
For this man's hands,
For the luck of the Irish
Is a tourism scam.

As for being in heaven
A half hour ahead
Of Ole Lucifer knowing
That I'm ten minutes dead;
I'm sure he'll be keening
At the foot of my bed.

Dad always said
Being Irish was grand,
If you're in North America
And not Ireland.