Póg mo thóin sassenach

Easter, 1916
By William Butler Yeats

I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman’s days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our wingèd horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone’s in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven’s part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse—
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.


Thanks @wilw

When you observe #TableTopDay
It only matters that you play
The object isn’t win or lose
Or about drinking Mt. Dews
Whether you play Munchkin, Catan,
Dixit, Zombie Dice or San Juan
The basic goal is to have fun
It won’t matter who lost or won


Yes day rhymes with day

When Friday is a payday
To me, that’s a Good Friday
Leaving work early that day?
It becomes a Great Friday!


His breath was shitty

There was a guy from New York City
He wasn’t smart, sexy, or witty
But ain’t this a bitch
He was filthy rich
And always had girls that were pretty


DOMA is dumb

We’re close, but right wing whackos need a shove
Why does marriage need to be defended?
If everyone could marry who they love
I can’t think of anything more splendid


Hoping sanity prevails

If you’re against marriage equality
How big an asshole do you need to be?
The supreme Court will make a decision
I hope they choose love over division


I <3 Merle the pearl

On the last Walking Dead
Asshole Governor said
We will leave you alone
If you bring me Michonne
Rick considers the plan
What is wrong with that man?
Merle attempts to amend
Daryl cries at the end


I’m wearing me green jacket

The Fairies
by William Allingham

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n’t go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen,
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back
Between the night and morrow;
They thought she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite?
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n’t go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather.


Hike me? Haiku!

Too windy outside
Spring’s first walkabout took place
At the local mall


NCAA chumps

Another upset
There goes your sure bet
Your bracket’s busted
You feel disgusted
That’s when March Madness
Turns to March Sadness


Time is the enemy

Met up with an old friend last night
We talked, laughed, drank and had a bite
28 years have passed us by
Catching up is our battle cry


Get well soon mom!

We booked our tickets to Ireland
Mom called to say she broke her hand
Dentist says still no cavities
Today’s storm is just a light breeze
How will this up and down day end?
Gonna meet up with high school friend


Presto! Face slap!

There once was a man from Modesto
Who wrote a dating manifesto
To get to third base
Go to a nice place
And buy her linguini with pesto


Monday funday

Our St. Pat’s party was great
Bubbles blowing in the sun
Can’t count the bangers I ate
Playing Rock Band was so fun
Ciders and beers, we drank a bunch
Then the day turned into night
Next day’s text – “come home for lunch”
What an afternoon delight!


Happy St. Pat’s!

The Dear Little Shamrock
By Andrew Cherry

There’s a dear little plant that grows in our Isle,
‘Twas St. Patrick himself, sure, that set it;
And the sun on his labour with pleasure did smile,
And with dew from his eye often wet it.
It shines thro’ the bog, thro’ the brake, thro’ the mire-land,
And he called it the dear little Shamrock of Ireland.
The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock,
The dear little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland.

That dear little plant still grows in our land,
Fair and fresh as the daughters of Erin,
Whose smiles can bewitch, and whose eyes can command,
In each climate they ever appear in.
For they shine thro’ the bog, thro’ the mire-land,
Just like their own dear little Shamrock of Ireland.
The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock,
The dear little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland.

That dear little plant that springs from our soil,
When its three little leaves are extended,
Denotes from the stalk, we together should toil,
And ourselves by ourselves be befriended.
And still thro’ the bog, thro’ the brake, and the mire-land,
From one root should branch, like the Shamrock of Ireland.
The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock,
The dear little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland.


Spoiler alert

Matthew Crawley, is that blood on your head?
Oh, Matthew Crawley, are you really dead?
Your romance with Mary was magic
She and you had it all
Your ride back to Downton was tragic
You should have made a call
Mr. Branson, should have been the chaffeur
Grantham’s Grandson, is the new heir for sure
Hey Fellowes is nobody sacred?
You’ve removed all the mirth
My love for you has turned to hatred
Since baby Sybil’s birth


Hibernian Haiku

Often too cloudy
When sun shines on Ireland
Green shamrocks abound


Least interesting man in the world

There is a man from Argentina
Who rules in the papal arena
He reads from Jonah
And sips Corona
Known as la cerveza mas fina


Pope Frank

So, now we have a Pope Francis
Will he change any church stances?
I think we should call him Pope Frank
That would be quite a papal prank
Brand new Pope, but plan is the same
Lie, deny, and shirk all the blame


Up in smoke

To many it might seem like a joke
But Catholics are focused on smoke
It’s a strange way to elect a boss
How is it done over at Hamas?
When the pipe spews out smoke that is black
Cook up some pop-corn and just sit back
When the voting brings smoke that is white
That means everything will be all right


North Korea is worst Korea

Rodman goes to North Korea
Horsey Sausage at IKEA
Cardinals meet to make new Pope
Gang rape suspect at end of rope
High court debates Voting Rights Act
My Yahoo email was hijacked
The Dow Jones sets an all-time high
More headline news to get you by


Oh to be in Mayo

Going Home to Mayo, Winter, 1949
By Paul Durcan

Leaving behind us the alien, foreign city of Dublin
My father drove through the night in an old Ford Anglia,
His five-year-old son in the seat beside him,
The rexine seat of red leatherette,
And a yellow moon peered in through the windscreen.
‘Daddy, Daddy,’ I cried, ‘Pass out the moon,’
But no matter how hard he drove he could not pass out the moon.
Each town we passed through was another milestone
And their names were magic passwords into eternity:
Kilcock, Kinnegad, Strokestown, Elphin,
Tarmonbarry, Tulsk, Ballaghaderreen, Ballavarry;
Now we were in Mayo and the next stop was Turlough,
The village of Turlough in the heartland of Mayo,
And my father’s mother’s house, all oil-lamps and women,
And my bedroom over the public bar below,
And in the morning cattle-cries and cock-crows:
Life’s seemingly seamless garment gorgeously rent
By their screeches and bellowings. And in the evenings
I walked with my father in the high grass down by the river
Talking with him – an unheard-of thing in the city.
But home was not home and the moon could be no more outflanked
Than the daylight nightmare of Dublin city:
Back down along the canal we chugged into the city
And each lock-gate tolled our mutual doom;
And railings and palings and asphalt and traffic-lights,
And blocks after blocks of so-called ‘new’ tenements –
Thousands of crosses of loneliness planted
In the narrowing grave of the life of the father;
In the wide, wide cemetery of the boy’s childhood.


GoT is coming

If you are a Lannister
You really know your sister
If you’re like Theon Greyjoy
Friendship is merely a ploy
If you’re more like Arya Stark
Your bite is worse than your bark
If you guard on the Night’s Watch
You vow not to use your crotch
If you lose the Game of Thrones
You’ll end up as rotting bones


Dammit Mamet

Arroyo Grande is to AG
As Los Angeles is to LA
AG Village has a lot to see
There’s a wine bar and even a play


Cure whine with wine

Rand Paul talks for hours
Stock in Apple sours
White House target of nuke
AIDS cure could be a fluke
Bin Laden son is caught
LeBron to tie the knot
Facebook changes timeline
This will get the most whine


Funny money

It is hard to put on a happy face
When your soul is sucked dry at your workplace
I shouldn’t complain that it’s not perfect
But they give less effort than I’d expect
I have a dream, but it might seem funny
To love my job and make stacks of money


Artemia NYOS rule

Is it worse to meet twilight junkies
Or somebody into Sea-Monkeys?
Sparkling vampires cause Stoker to Spin
But instant life pets are full of win


Herbaceous haiku

Traffic races past
The purple lupine flowers
In fields of green grass


He ain’t lion

The Lion
By Spike Milligan

If you’re attacked by a Lion
Find fresh underpants to try on
Lay on the ground quite still
Pretend you are very ill
Keep like that day after day
Perhaps the lion will go away


This boy ate soy

I’m usually a barbarian
But sometimes I’ll eat vegetarian
Because I consume all manners of meats
It’s weird to eat the food that your food eats


Spock shot first

I’m such a big nerd that my heart swelled
When Obama said Jedi Mind Meld
I don’t care that Trek and Wars were mixed
I just want the economy fixed

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