I remember how the nuns taught us.
Awkwardly, in their penguin uniforms they bounced,
immodestly showing their feet in attempts to stomp
their truth into our heads,
as if salvation hinged on
how a true Irish does the jig.
They had no clue their good intentions
didn't match any reference I had.
I'd never heard of such a dance or man
who convinced Ireland there's only one green path.
They did their best those nuns,
to animate reality of hell.
"Tongue kissing. What's that!?
Something that to no lady would appeal."
Besides, it's guaranteed
anything beyond a touch of hands
gives rise to tongues of fire,
to devour a girl's curious zeal.
They taught of heaven too.
A tranquil place with palaces
where green meadows grow.
It sounded boring as hell, no reward
for all the acts of self-restraint
Their holy focus laced
with ignorance and bliss,
never spoke the benefits to health
that eating greens invokes,
or the magnitude of damage
our carbon dreams would bestow.
Now as I think about those women so saintly,
I wonder if their innocence had such immensity
as to forgo a hero's grandiose celebration
a green mark of commemoration
by drinking a little Irish libation.
(Submitted to Dverse Poets)