The ballerina's pirouette:
   This is the little triolet.
Within a faëry scene and set
The ballerinas pirouette
To a limpid midnight minuet
   In Thumbelina-esque ballet.
The ballerina's pirouette:
   This is the little triolet.

A banshee once went on a date,—
A dinner.  It wasn't so great:
   She started to cry
   Right across from the guy,
Who then choked and fell dead on his plate.

Tell me, friend,  have you ever seen
A leprechaun in a suit o' green
     With an impish grin?
      You haven't?  Well,
You must not know the magic spell!
            Listen in:

You take a pipe and puff and pass
A green as green as Erin's grass,
      Then take a glass
      Of whiskey and beer,
And chase the smoke, and choke with cheer:
      One will appear!

Be careful when drinking the whiskey:
It leads to behaviors quite risky.
   I once shared a bottle
   With a bicorn hat model,
Then got—with this leprechaun—frisky.

Oh, give to me the freshest drink,—
   A draught as smooth as silk
And whiter than the kitchen sink,—
   A pail full of milk!

Pour it with love, and watch it flow,
   (Nor spill a drop, for dread!)
Pour it precisely, enjoy the show,
   And give it a foamy head!

I drink it ere the morning sun
   Hath waked the early bird:
I wake and make a midnight run
   To taste the lazy herd.

I rise at dawn and drink again,
   And drink throughout the day;
Then drink a nightcap (or nine or ten)
   And dream of curds and whey.

I've heard it said I drink too much,
   And this is understood;
But man has never died from such,
   And oh! it's just so good!

.
         Some hold it true that Erin's creamy skin
         Is clearly fairest in both grain and hue;
         And I have seen such porcelain skin as hin-
ted quite convincingly that this was true.
         Some hold it true the Aztec's nut-brown hide
         (Made with Quetzal's chocolate from long ago)
         Is fairest, and understandably deride
The purblind eyes of those who do not know.
         And others, still, prefer a different cast,—
         A different color, texture, shade, and tone.
         And most enjoy a rude debate on taste.
I argue not, but leave them all alone:
         I'd rather go and dream a blissful dream
         Of chocolate skin wet-kist with Irish cream.

(I.)
        Only a fool would try, in line by line
        Of fair assessment honestly expressed,
        To paint with words the finest of the fine
Beauties of which you solely are possessed.
        No elegance would not seem spread too thin;
        And he who'd try would never be believed,
        For none would see as truth the truth therein,
But think it all a lover's eyes deceived.
        So candid pics and videos must record
        What speech could never adequately limn,
        And would be doubted elsewise word for word,—
The evidence being hearsay and far too slim.
        Yet, all of these leave much too much to doubt:—
        All flaws would seem, no doubt, photoshopped out.

(II.)
        Like two caves spun with dusty cobweb-snares
        Guarding a cache of emeralds is your nose.
        Your globby eyes find shade 'neath oxen hairs.
Like two thin frowning mustaches are your brows.
        With microscopic mites your shiny skin
        Glints, like a hanging fruit's with aphid flies
        Flitting around about and out and in,
Or a hot, oil-glistened frenchèd fry's.
        Like hard, mini marshmallows are your teeth.
        Your lips, like jellied dextromethorphan.
        Oh! oh! to be that rubber soul beneath
Those knobby tubers made for kicking a can!              
        But here again the painting is askew:
        It lacks that certain something that's in you.

Yes, rubber soul.

.
   Beneath a mystic moon an ancient air—
         A melody only
            And lonely—
Is sung by her with moonshine eyes and shadowy hair.
   Across the seas of water and time
         She sings to me.
         Each line and rhyme
         I strangely recall.

         I fall asleep,
         Then wake and creep
   As nightshade over a garden wall;
   And there with all the flowers that bloom
   By moonlight—in the beautiful gloom—
   I start the long journey and hope to come back
   With some of the knowing I knew in the black.

  

I stubbed my toe and yelled out, "****!"
But blessèd be that Irish luck!
For had I not an Irish root,
I would've surely lost the foot!