Saint Patrick's Day, or
Feast of Saint Patrick
Lá Fhéile Pádraig
invoke even non Irish to proclaim
Éirinn go Brách
translated as "Ireland Forever."

Juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee 2026 Saint Patrick's Day,
hens this faux written accent
more challenging and cryptic 
than chicken scratch
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull o' Eire rush deuce cent)
aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent
without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -
good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment
eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent
scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment
secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to co-invent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet
ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent
gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
with like totally tubular tales 
nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth,
and tube he frank and earnest
feigning ire rush dialect exhausting
brought to thee courtesy 
following a concatenation of
the leprechaun within

when every March seventeenth, the glint froom

a perverted imp finds me achin'

and if aye dig deep enough,

this Goyish pseudo judo day yo criss chin

can figuratively unearth a puckish

(gnome like) elfish sprite 

with a layer ring ga Erin

which byte size (key) ah man able troll

help pan for treasure hunters

plume bing the underworld

with his (aye farm lee bull eve

moost har male) sly grin

stirring thy faux set (head) 

feigned Irish with in

new mutter nada trace,

(boot perhaps juiced an iota) 

o' Brogue kin

Celtic gene found

within me genealogical tree,

an itty bitty min

newt chromosomal thread,

(which with assistance of Crispr)

i.e., a more discerning Quaker can 

pinpoint how this predominantly 

(decrepit ole coot)

Semitic baby boomer tub hoot

(whale hugging 

ma gude look four leaf Shamrock)

can locate long buried loot

according to legend

(plus devout avid fervent 

Irish Aunt Fib B. Hen
aka Sally Salamander Newt)
doth avail her excitement to help up root

(perhaps revisiting a previously 
dug oop quid ditch)
maybe treasure undetected

cuz ova technical, 

and/or mechanical glitch

truth to the tantalizing myth 

whar hike can hitch
my dreams to a morning star,

that would make a par man rich

and put an end 

to mine fingers that hoo twitch

which i roan nick pie rite (of quartz)

alluding to healthy appetite,

sans tea zing alluring 

(whet started as byte)

size nar invisible craving, 

which fantasy easily didst excite

(necessitating yars true lee) 
to don robe of foo fight
tar, yet persistent 
and nagging lust didst light

lore (akin to un hearth thing
pot o' gold at rainbow's end),

cuz hum ma penniless plight
such dogged pursuit, a mirage,
whereat aye drool in plain sight
thus conk clue ding this 
hip poe eponymous droning pome
though, tis plenti mo' hie hood write!