Luck of the Irish
A dragonfly with sticky wings,|
Confined inside a garbage can,
Decided maggots weren't its thing
And ate, instead, a glob of bran.
With belly swollen full of gas,
It farted hard and hit the lid.
Alas, there's no escape this day;
Into a moldy peach, it slid.
An Irish gent with trash to dump
Did drop the lid remarking, 'Phew!'
When suddenly some light appeared,
That dragonfly knew what to do.
In moldy coat and maggot shoes,
Poor dragonfly could not soar far.
It plopped upon the old man's foot,
Still looking very much bizarre.
Myopia and stiffened joints,
This poor old man had had enough.
He saw a leprechaun jump out
And knew that he must call the bluff.
'March seventeenth has come at last
And, with it, luck must shine on me.
Just show me where you keep your gold,
And I'll be glad to set you free!'
At that, the dragonfly just grinned
And flapped its wings to free the mold.
It lit atop the old man's nose
And dropped a load of bran-filled gold.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This is a revision of a poem
by the same name
that I wrote a little over a year ago.
By Peggy Paris
© 2008 Peggy Paris
(All rights reserved)