Saint Patrick, he drove out the snakes
From Eire. From there,
They travelled, across water
And mountain passes, discovering
How big Eurasia’s landmass is.
Until they arrived, weary, barely alive
In far Cathay, where the locals seized them all,
Tore out their livers and the sac of gall,
Lapping up the drops of bile, spent
In hopes of Penile Enhancement.
The meat, they’d shred and eat.
Perishing, the snakes thought,
“Now see what Padraig wrought.
Bastardly as those Irish’d treat us,
At least they never thought to eat us.
Now we’re well and truly screwed.”
And souped, and stewed.
Thus, when comes March Seventeenth anew,
I’ll break out my bottle of Tullamore Dew.
My Irish friends and I will drink a toast
To good Saint Padraig, whilst on the farthest coast
Of the Earth, stiff-peckered Chinese men will drain
Their cups of Snake-Bile Wine in Paddy’s name.
Yet, let us raise a glass unto the Snake.
He suffered much, for old Saint Paddy’s sake.