As the sgriob climbed up,
my thirsty, croiméal bristles,
I was tickled, and, teased,
by the uisce bheatha.

Fuisce gazed, pining,
for what was yet to be.

Gingerly, it beckoned,
first my cerulean súile,
then, my scarlet beola.

Orange and blue, plumed,
transfixed, like a; rabharta.

Generously I supped,
and, slurped. Whilst my spirits,
were lifted. Entering and exiting,
betwixt, my séanas.

If my súile are the windows to my soul,
then, my séanas is the drawbridge.

Several hours went by...
filled with raucous laughter,
craic and gargle.

Plus, the giving and receiving,
of tall, meandering, unruly scéilíní.

The world was put, well, to rights.
Agus, I also recall a jóc grinn,
about hearing a zombiefied,
Mick McCarthy, caoin,
by, Roy Keane's, graveside.

Aduantas, go leor.
As I rose, in the camhanaich,
beside, an empty bottle of Jameson's.
The bottle as...