Irish Car Bomb

Go call them out, the Dubliners
And say you pour
The rich black stream whose brogue is worn
On cobblestones and blackthorn soles
O hurry to this darkened drink
O hurry you to St. James Gate

And yet when Mr. Guinness shows
But half his face, we see a measure
Of the swarthy man
Still half, but waiting for his kin
And yet another frothy sip to sit astride
Another glass to measure out
His barley sin

A small plain cup across
The table square, within burns fire
Lit for blackened Irish seas
In glass, and yet but filled to half
This Jameson man awaits his bride
From Bailey clan, who spreads so wide
Her silken milk-maid knees

Now, spirits, mingle in your lust
I pray, confront the sturdy man
With smilish ways, beneath the drunken stare
He lingers cold, still half a measure
Yet untold, and still the swarthy man awaits
Menage a trois at St. James Gate