'Twas the night before St. Patrick's
And all through the cell
The only thing heard
was you yelling hell.
The laundry was hung
By the ladder with care
In hopes that soon dry
They'd be ready to wear.
You couldn't sit still—
Jumping up, sitting down,
Dancing and prancing
And singing a noun.
Then the door opened
And run, yes you did
To go meet your baby
For you're practically a kid.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.