Last week was Chicago’s St. Patrick’s day party weekend. But I’m feeling a little festive anyway, so here’s the traditional St. Pat’s eve poem for your enjoyment
Twas the night before St Pats, when all through the bar
Not a barfly was stirring, even nursing a sidecar.
The clovers were hung on the windows with care
Waiting for the gaggles to take selfies there.
The beers were nestled all snug in the fridge
Destined to become victims of spillage.
And the tender modeling her low cut shirt,
Paired up with a borrowed tartan mini skirt.
When out on Clark street arose such a clatter,
Louder even that the El train’s chatter.
Away to the windows the bouncers flew,
Jacked up on sugar free red bulls and mountain dew.
When what to their wonder suddenly appear
But a crew of miniature Chirish all wanting beer
With a shine in their bleary eyes and voices so true
They all cried, in brotherly unison, “Time for a brew!”
As rapid as they could they named some booze
You’d think that they were Trump supporters shouting “Fake news!”
“Now, pabst! Now miller! Now blatz and bud lite!
On, jameson! On, bushmills! On, Jack Daniels alright!
To the sweet land of drunkenness! Where we’ll scale a wall!
We’ll drink away! Drink away! Drink away our wherewithal!”
They all dressed in green from their heads to their feets,
From afar, if you squinted, you’d think a group of parakeets!
They streamed into the saloons their thirst ready to slake,
Ordering shots and backers, all eager to merry make
The bar-backs flew gathering supplies like magical reindeer
Whenever a keg was dragged out it was met with a cheer,
By way of the increasingly drunken congregation
A few already bounced to the street due to inebriation.
Soon the revelers packed the sidewalks and pizza places
Some laughing, some signings, some with mascara running down their faces.
Cops packed one into the back of their car, saying, “Steve,
Don’t you know there’s no such thing as St. Patrick’s day eve?”