This grand day goes on, the revelry and mysticism

Where the millions proclaim their pride with unsteady and clumsy hands

With burning sensations in a cold glass

The corners of the earth they chant songs they have no right to sing

Only caring for one March day and night, excuses for disgust

The scattered children of the Gael, blinded by false pretenses

This poet wonders with wide eyes to the eastern skyline

If his people were not victims, slain for their faith nor identity

How the world would be different

Our talented youth passed along to whorish nationalism abroad

Claiming wonders that should be Erins

It could be us at the top of the pedastal, making the world gaelic

Instead we left our fathers to fend for themselves

But they sing their songs without proper payment to true home

And expect to be welcomed back with your stereotypes of shamrocks

We left before the green flag had a chance to be unfurled over the castles

The screaming rock of Tara stood alone for 3 score years before you gave a damn

Our dreams could have been fulfilled if we stayed and had HOPE that things could get better

So heres my advice to the displaced sons and daughters

Pay your debt in the tolbooth for the absence you committed in Ireland hour

Go to the streets of Derry and lose a loved one, and become disfigured

With foreign mark upon your backside as this poet has

Then talk of loving the land, perfect and forgotten

Find me by the cliffs of Moher, near my ancesteral home

Scarred back to the western seas, for this man of dreams

Will be HOME, and making it a better place for all, beckoning his comarades to return

REMEMBER what was, who you are with dignity