‘The Sad but Hopeful Tale of a Reformed Irishman’

By Thomas Riley

In mourning for the Ireland that is dead,
I’m wearing black on this, the Feast of Pat.
The saint himself, I think, is doing that
Up in celestial regions.  Now, instead
Of holy poverty and Scriptures read,
The isle St. Paddy freed grows soft and fat
On babies’ blood.  A snake would smell a rat
In such a hellhole, worthy to be fled.
Ireland, I now confess, ain’t everywhere.
Let truer countries rise to seize the day
And cure me of Hibernian despair!
The Global South hath yet a role to play,
And there is promise on the Eastern air.
(God bless you, Mother Russia, by the way!)

***

For an account of the life of the Holy Apostle to the Irish Saint Patrick:

https://orthochristian.com/120199.html

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Holy Ælfred the Great, King of England, South Patron, pray for us sinners at the Souð, unworthy though we are!

Anathema to the Union!