Yes, yes, we all know about the Guinness
Black, milky goodness pouring endlessly out of beer taps
To eager, thirsty punters waiting anxiously for that extended pour to be over

We know about the leprechauns and four leaf clovers
Of Blarney Stones and redheads
And enough boiled dinners of corned beef and cabbage to end a thousand potato famines

We know it may get rowdy
Indeed it usually does
For there amid the parades, the drinks and the sea of green a few punches may be thrown

Perhaps we should know about the man of the day a little better
That Saint from Kilpatrick
And be able to speak of ‘The Confessio’ and ‘Epistola ad Coroticum’

But I can’t claim to be that expert
No, not by a stretch
So I’ll leave such updates for others

Suffice to say, here in Boston last night
Familiarity with the old customs, habits and vagaries mattered not
The Celtic spirit was alive and well

We drank, we laughed, and then we drank some more
I’m sure we’ve done that all before
But dear St. Pat –whoever he may be- does seem to stir our spirits just that little more

Ezy Reading is out every Monday.