Matthew O' Harris Ease A "FAKE" Irishman

Juiced tin he nuff tame afore

thee Saint Patrick's Day,

(hens this faux written accent

donned to sail hub berate won big todo

fur those peep pull o' Eire rush deuce cent)

aye pretend, and thence make oop

duff fallow wing vary minor event

harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,

hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,

(who hapt tubby absent

without leave from Brogue kin home

since a lil whippersnapper, and accident

boot tappin), when me note holler than

garden variety leprechaun, advertisement

tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -

good red ants tomb ma late mum,

which fair re: creatures, no argument

booth us, iz moar rare than

finding far leaf clover,

and eek will coz fur astonishment

eef hoodlum (caw zing

bedlam) sought atonement

Yukon bull heave or no,

how life on the lamb

as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent

scruffy geezers old looking and bent

till kind ole soul named C. Clement

took yaws truly as apprenticed

Baron without complaint,

though kept ma lidded concealment

secret til search abandoned confident

gnome hissing pipsqueak,

would be sorely missed

giving fresh start with help to coinvent

patois, and be comb real estate magnet

ne'er no wing want oof

basic needs - yea content

in due time making pile

moan hee tall as Taj Mahal

kicking back during Lent

gerrymandering convalescent

old age spinning yarns

for modest copayment

total tubular tales with

nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth!