An American in Ireland
In a pub where the shamrocks all grow,
An American burst in with a glow.
He sipped on his stout,
Then let out a shout,
“The Guinness here’s better than snow!”
With a hat made of tweed on his head,
He danced like he’d just seen the dead.
The locals all laughed,
While he stumbled and quaffed,
“Is it me or this whiskey so red?”
He tried to say “sláinte” with flair,
But tripped over his own long hair.
Yet with every bad pun,
And each joke he had spun,
He filled up the room with good cheer!
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 