Sunday, May 21, 2006

i hardly knew ye . . .

.
i hardly knew ye, dark rosaleen.
you look so different, where have ye been ?
you got your hair done - that's what i mean,
your tresses have a flaxen, saxon, sheen . . .

o dark rosaleen, the poets' muse,
when i saw you, i nearly blew a fuse.
no more the raven headed irish maid,
more like leftovers from some viking raid.

so many died for freedom of our land,
but this is what i do not understand -
they died for the orange white and green -
but you dyed all the colours in between.

are ye the blondes the gentlemen prefer ?
blondes have more fun, and blondes create more stir.
to fight for ireland, dark haired girls are grand,
but it takes a blonde to make a one night stand.

so recently your mother gave you suck.
ye grew up happy as a pig in muck.
but ye no longer trust to irish luck,
ye seek the plastic surgeon's nip and tuck.

at first i wasn't sure if it was you,
but underneath your heart beats strong and true -
an irish heart beats strong within your breast,
while gossard's wonderbra pumps up your chest.

the girls that once were gaelic, dark, and red -
now wall to wall are flaxen blondes instead.
was it of this they dreamed - our patriot dead -
your bleached peroxide frizzed-up saxon head ?

i hardly knew ye, dark rosaleen,
my maid of erin, land of the green -
'tis to the old hairdresser ye have been.
now you're the fairest thing was ever seen.
- yes, you're the fairest thing was ever seen.
.

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