‘Twas the night ‘fore St. Patrick’s and all through the home,
No creature did stir, except me writing this tome.
The stockings were folded and placed in their drawers
Because the wife does get angry if I leave them on floors.
The dog was nestled all snug in the bed
While visions of whatever dogs think about flew through her head.
And my wife comatose on the couch without tossing
Because dealing with me is completely exhausting.
When outside my window there arose a great sound,
I jumped from couch, stubbed my toe, then fell down.
“Stupid coffee table,” I hissed under breath
Then limped to the window, my toe feeling like death.
The moon in the sky could barely be seen
Due to our window’s layer of filth that is quite obscene.
When through the layer of dirt, I did finally spot
An Irishman flying on a gigantic shamrock.
The driver was pulled by eight little snakes
“Is that St. Patrick?” I asked, as I pushed back the drapes.
More rapid than eagles these flying snakes flew
Then his mouth opened and each name he did spew.
“Now Shamus! Now Padraig! Now Edward! Now Liam!
On, Conor! On, Darragh! On Aiden and Phelim!
To the top of the apartment, to the roof you shall fly!
And also land carefully for that roof is quite high.”
At this juncture my wife I did attempt to awake
It’s not like a Saint visits us every day.
With each call of her name, though, I heard the replies.
“Five more minutes, I’m just resting my eyes.”
And then, I heard through the above apartments
The hissing and slithering of eight little serpents.
As I drew in my hand, confused by what I did hear
From the roof St. Patrick climbed with great care.
He was dressed in a robe that ran all the way to his toes
Which struck me as odd since most men don’t wear those.
No gifts he carried, not one did he bring
Which was good for I didn’t get him a thing.
His eyes – how they twinkled! His dimples were merry.
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like cherry.
Stereotypes are often wrong, but the man smelled of whisky,
He stumbled inside, quite obviously tipsy.
“Um… hi…” I spat out, unsure of what to say
I had never spoken to a very old saint.
He didn’t reply, just slowly walked to me,
Then stood there, his eyes up and down were scanning.
“Tomorrow’s a day to honor Ol’ Pat.
I’m sure you’re aware of what I’m getting at.
See, a few minutes ago, the clock struck 12, midnight
And now my day has finally come to light.
“I can’t help but notice, green is not your garment’s color.”
Then he pinched me hard, laughing as I suffer.
“Oh, don’t be a baby, it wasn’t that hard.
I doubt you will find that it even has scarred.”
With that he climbed out the window, scaled the drainpipe,
Then flew away, his snakes hissing in the night.
I exclaimed at him, as I pictured his smirk
“Happy St. Patrick’s you stupid Irish jerk.”