Kick Me, I'm Scottish

or,

This Is Sure to Get Me in Trouble—But Then, That Only Proves My Point

I’d like to dance a jig for ol’ St. Patrick,
Which I’d do, ’cept for the fact I’m geriatric.

I’d flash my head o’ hair, as red as flame—
But the color o’ what’s left is much more tame.

I’d say the Em’rald Isle thrills me all over,
But to my mind, well…a shamrock’s just a clover.

Of drink, I’d boast I never get enough—
’Cept by comparison, I never touch the stuff.

I’d cook a dinner worthy of St. Paddy—
But I doubt he’d be too pleased with Finnan haddie.

And I’d warn ya ’bout my temper, quick and fire-ish;
I’d do all o’ this an’ more—’cept I’m not Irish.

Yeah, I’d like to write a poem for St. Paddy,
But it might be took wrong, comin’ from a plaiddie.

                                     —O. Scotymous