Her husband in blue jeans
he drove his wife to her burial
ground, in his pick up truck,
All the Irish with their pride
without a tear in their eye
gathered to take a turn to
scope up some dirt, to bury
Let – the dirt fly.
It was a true Irish wake
with music and drink
not one Irishman would fight,
It was time to reminisce.
The party began, down at the
local place, in a rented hall
I heard – after all the sand did fly
It was time to open the sky
Irish smiles and twinkles in Irish eyes.
The food laid out – drinks were poured –
time to toast – three cheers, three cheers
to one who was no more.
It was a time and place to celebrate
as if his wife were here to dance.
The band was right, it was her time to fly
for that grand meeting
in the sky.
So the Irish survive with music and
whiskey, some beer cans drop to the
floor where dancing began with an
Irish band, until midnight when the
doors would close.
The man and his wife lay side by side
he prays he doesn’t stay to long alive
for his bride will be no matter her age
his partner in life, as if they danced on