When I was 11 years old my grandfather taught me a long poem. I wrote it down, memorized it and then lost the original writing. Every few years I would think about that poem and I would recite it from memory. Hell, I have trouble remembering all the words to “Happy Birthday”, but I remember that poem like it was yesterday. I often recite if to my wife and she thinks I should share it. I wrote it down and hopefully my hard drive doesn’t crash before my brain. Here it is in full…excuse the length.
An Irishman’s Dream
About a week ago I was invited, by an old time friend of mine to come up to his residence to taste his beer and wine. Well, we ate a lobster salad and lots of other truck and drank each other’s health until the hour of three had struck.
We drank until we didn’t know which was wine or beer, That our heads felt rather heavy and my brain was not very clear. I got home I don’t know how, my prayers I think I said, For I was partially paralyzed when I finally got to bed
Well I died and went to heaven; I saw repentance was too late, when suddenly I was ushered up before the golden gate. “Well what do you want?” said St Peter, “you know you can’t come in, For you must surely suffer that greedy glutton’s sin.”
So, I turned aside, said not a word, but bowed my head in shame, And Peter’s clerk, who stood close by, wrote LOST against my name. Next came an Italian, on earth I knew him well, So I stopped and listented patiently to the story he might tell.
“Oh, gooda father Pedro, I comma to you at last. My peanut days are over, my banana nights are past. I treata my neighbor just a lika myself, no begga, no robba, no steal. And never on the sidewalks, did I throw a banana peel.”
“You begone”, cried Peter, “you gains were ill begotten, Your peanut shells were empty, your bananas often rotten.” Well, the Italian turned aside, and a tear was in his eye, And he came and stood beside me and heaved a heavy sigh
Well, next came an old Hebrew, with a satchel in his hand, And before the gate of St. Peter, the Hebrew took his stand. “Ahh, good father Peter, I vill tell you what ve’ll do I’ve got jewelry fit for the angels, I vill auction off to you.
I could sell them on a payment plan, but that would be a sin, So, I vill give them to you for half price, if you vill let me in. On earth I kept a clothing store, my goods were nice and strong And I could fit for you and overcoat but I forgot to bring it along.
“Are you deluded well?” says Peter,”for very well you know There’s no need for overcoats, down where you have to go” Well next came an old maid from England, one bound to have her way So she began addressing Peter, in this most peculiar way
“Oh, goodness gracious me, here I am after gossiping many a year So open the gate and let me in, I’m catching cold out here. And give me a first class pair of wings, a silver shield and then I won’t have to be afraid of those nasty naughty men.
“No”, Peter answered bluntly, “no angels have grey hair, And as you have no sons or daughters, you’d be a stranger here.” Well the poor old maid wilted, she must ever more opine And just like me and all the rest, she came and stood in line.
Well next came poor Paddy, a son of Erin’s Isle And he greeted old St. Peter with a very gracious smile. “Ha ha, it’s yourself, St. Peter, looking so nice and sweet. So get yer clerk to open the gate and show me to me seat.”
“Hold”, cried Peter, “your case must first be tried. And you will have to show a passport, before you get inside.” “Hurry fer Jesus sake St. Peter, or for supper I’ll be late.” Then poor Paddy took off his little cap and he threw it inside the gate
“Go get thy hat,” says Peter, “thou sacrilegious lout!” And Paddy rushed in and slammed the gate and he locked St. Peter out. Then, through the keyhole, loud he cried“Ya ha my boyo, I’m the master now yee see. But I’ll give up heaven, the gate and the crown If you’ll set old Ireland free.”
Well, then I awoke and found my head between the bed and wall. The sheets were tangled round my feet, ‘twas the lobster salad that did it all.