Wednesday, March 17, 2010

A Pint on St. Patrick’s Day

Somewhere out in a pub, an old friend
Is hoisting a pint to his whiskered lips;
I’d say his hair must be going gray now,
As he counts the change at his fingertips.

Long ago we went from pub to pub,
Singing and laughing as we went;
Those were our carefree, single days:
No wife, no kids, no jobs, no rent!

Alas, those times ended; we parted ways,
But we always promised to stay in touch;
Yet life has a way of twisting pledges,
So now I don’t hear from him too much.

I don’t hold a thing against him;
Hey, he and I, we are the same;
Life just has a way of taking over;
I know there is no one to blame.

So at home on this night each year,
I lift a pint and think of him;
My dear old friend, we had fun, so
I sip my stout with a wide grin.

Many years hence, we will be gone:
Our bodies cold in the dark ground,
But at some ethereal and eternal pub,
I’ll be buying him another round.

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