St. Patrick’s Day Keening

Oh why did you leave?

You celebrants,

Infants,

to America sailing,

Leaving dread in your wake

and my dead ancestors

resting in a County Tyrone churchyard.

Oh what did you find?

You Pattons found feast after famine,

food on the table,

rangeland and oil in

the Indian Territories.

You begat and begat,

Until along I came,

To wear a green derby,

Lift a green beer

and trivialize your travails,

at some pretentious pretend pub.

Oh were your children dutiful?

Lá Fhéile Pádraig

You arrived with no mention

of St. Patrick’s mission

Buried by some secular Celtic undertaker

Like my kin

Forbidden to keen.