the leprechaun within

every March seventeenth, the glint froom

a perverted imp finds me achin'

and if aye dig deep enough,

this Goyish pseudo judo day yo criss chin

can figuratively unearth a puckish

(gnome like) elfish sprite

with a layer ring ga Erin

which byte size (key) ah man able troll

help pan for treasure hunters

plume bing the underworld

with his (aye farm lee bull eve

moost har male) sly grin

stirring thy faux set (head)

feigned Irish with in

new mutter nada trace,

(boot perhaps juiced an iota)

o' Brogue kin

Celtic gene found

within me genealogical tree,

an itty bitty min

newt chromosomal thread,

(which with assistance of Crispr)

i.e., a more discerning Quaker can pin

point how this predominantly

(decrepit ole coot)

Semitic baby boomer tub hoot

(whale hugging

ma gude look four leaf Shamrock)

can locate long buried loot

according to legend

(plus devout avid fervent

Irish Aunt Fib B. Hen
aka Sally Salamander Newt)
doth avail her excitement to help up root

(perhaps revisiting a previously dug oop ditch)
maybe treasure undetected

cuz ova technical,

and/or mechanical glitch

truth to the tantalizing myth

whar hike can hitch
my dreams to a morning star,

that would make a par man rich

and put an end

to mine fingers that hoo twitch

which i roan nick pie rite (of quartz)

alluding to healthy appetite,

sans tea zing alluring

(whet started as byte)

size nar invisible craving,

which fantasy easily didst excite

(necessitating yars true lee) to don robe of foo fight
tar, yet persistent and nagging lust didst light

lore (akin to un hearth thing
pot o' gold at rainbow's end),

cuz hum ma penniless plight

such dogged pursuit, a mirage,
whereat aye drool in plain sight

thus conk clue ding this
hip poe eponymous droning pome
though, tis plenti mo' hie hood write!