My cat had 9 lives,
He gave 8 to my willingness to create impossible cuisines
of leek, onion, wanton, bone and whiskey
and 3 more to hand my flight to Dublin,

To meet the poets and see why they are dead,
To feed me soup that my grandmother made
A unique blend of garlic and potatoes that were green
And chicken broth and her picture, amongst other things,

She looked weary
As though it would rot
She smelled my soup
And said it wasn't hot

I can't make the soup
I can only pour a double shot.