As a young man, I kissed the Blarney Stone
simply by imagining that I did,
a gift for the gab is seldom acquired,
you might say, so easily, what I've done
on purpose requires no flight, no passport,
under the stars, I envision a lid,
nothing more, nothing less, nothing required,
given I had nothing, they say the Lord
may provide believers if they believe,
as I have never been certain of faith
no cash has ever come my way to leave.
Ireland hides within the cover sleeve,
kindly placed and embraced by Joyce himself,
if I lie, I speak an inverted truth,
simply see past the foil, how I perceive
supernatural forces of great wealth,
elegantly hidden within his books,
despite my inexplicable insight,
the fact remains, I kissed the Blarney Stone,
hungry to understand, by hook or crook,
everything was available, my plight...
Belief, with a capital B, my faith
left me, "non serviam" the Easter Crone
asks but does not receive her recompense,
restitution must be made, in a sense,
nothing lost, nothing gained, by grace for sooth,
everything in the universe is here,
yet if your mind is closed, it disappears.
Sticks and stones have broken my bones, the voice
trembles in tones indistinguishable,
on the surface, from a cat without fear,
nothing gained, nothing lost, we make a choice,
enable galaxies to reappear.
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