There are two principal problems
with Ireland, and I found both
to be utterly insurrmountable.
Every town, even Galway City
at any time of day or night
looked like it should be a postcard.
Add to that the horror that in
every pub I visited it was assumed
that if asked I would sing a song
or, realizing I have no singing
voice, I would recite a poem
from William Butler Yeats
which I sadly could not, yet after
the third pint of Guinness
I could, I think, recite my name.