It came just as fast as it went, an all too embraced Irish sun in the summer of 2013, heaven-sent
Hurting now but on we must plough, rain-soaked to the last, a blast from that all too famed ‘rain-gun’, no more Goddamn sun
They can kiss the ‘Blarney Stone’ before heading on home, umbrellas in hand, having had to listen all too intently at first to a cliched Irish occurence courtesy of our thirst
Fellas in farmers caps singing to the high heavens about this, about that
Too much Guinness on board, sending those tourists in the wrong direction with their literary sword
An option, just a suggestion, how about substituting the stout for an altogether different kind of clout
Use our storytelling to bring them on back, be it the weather good or just downright crap, sell them a few not so true home-truths
They hear that our weather is good and they come running with the right albeit a misled kind of attitude