It’s difficult for me to say
What’s in my heart St. Patrick’s Day.
The raucous, alcoholic mobs
Recall the words that Thomas Hobbes
Laid claim to in Leviathan
In sixteen one-and-fifty when
He wrote of lives of men at war.
He called them, “solitary, poor…”
— And here’s the phrase I wish he’d left
For me; I’ve none with quite the heft
With which to crown a leprechaun
As those he chose when he went on–
“…nasty, brutish, and…” — wait for it —
“…short.”  Ka-pow! I just adore it!
Every rancid adjective,
Each golden nugget in the sieve
Of Hobbes’s placer mine of loathing
Calls to mind the garish clothing,
Sick-encrusted facial hair
And boldly buckled hats they wear…
Or is that pilgrims? Puritans
Aren’t known for vomit on their chins
And swilling vats of tinted beer
In outdoor crowds, are they? Oh, dear,
My train of thought just jumped the track.
Perhaps I’ll try a different tack:
Drunken leprechauns are dumb.
Eleven weeks until they come!


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