The seventeenth of March
Is like our own little Christmas,
Thanksgiving, Independence Day,
And Fourth of July
All drunkenly rolled into one

When us Irish and wannabe Irish,
Sing our same old songs
Will repeat our tired mantra,
And do just what
The Irish are expected to do.

To watch nice green parades,
While sipping on nice green milkshakes.
To be drunkards and happy-go-lucky,
Doing our best Riverdance impression to fiddles,
Because everyone wants to be Irish.

Today we'll act like we only drink Guinness.
Where in a place full of craic and merriment,
There's still so much blood and tears.
Where the only snakes are pets or in zoos,
There's still so much venom.

Of course, there was never any snakes
Only metaphors for Pagans and Druidic priests,
And St. Pat wasn't even an Irishman,
Just a boy made into a slave by Irish pirates.
But everything always gets covered up nicely.

Stories get changed and sensitized,
Until the truth becomes a theory,
And fabrication becomes fact.
The truth begins to wear a veil,
Because it's considered so ugly.

The truth is also a beacon.
A flashlight against the dark.

Dark as the confessionals
Where a child's innocence was
Crippled by
The lukewarmness of the priest's
Hand over their mouth.

A flashlight against the dark.

Dark as a septic tank in Galway,
Filled with eight hundred dead babies,
Throw away,
Like ****, because they were
Equally unwanted.

A flashlight against the dark.

Dark as a night flight
To an English abortion clinic,
Because here it's not your body,
The righteous all knowing say
"That's not how it works here".

So drink your Guinness,
Sing The Dubliners,
Watch the parade go by,
Have the craic and
Turn off your flashlight.