by Nick Gisburne
How magical, how devious the plan
Discovering the fabled pot of gold
That sinister and sneaky little man
Outwitted by the whiskey he was sold
The leprechaun revealed it, in a rhyme
I spied him, singing, drinking, up a tree
A perfect day, a priceless, perfect crime
The Irish luck has smiled, at last, on me
The hole is very dark and very deep
It’s raining, but of course that’s what I need
And as the rainbow touches down, I leap
Above, a voice commends me on my greed
“You’ve found the pot, of that you can be sure
You’re in my shit. That’s leprechaun manure”
