Tipperary, Four in the Morning
by NJ McGarrigle
Remember that time at our dear friends’ wedding?
I approached you, all nuclear energy in a bunker bar,
Mined with guests primed to go off at any minute,
With how you do and where’s the booze,
While curly Paddy played keyboard,
His classical disposition disabused, for one night only.
The chance to take you out, cooling your heels after dancing,
Stepping lightly towards, careful with my treading,
Seeing a gap in you heart and hoping to fill it, I dreamed it.
Not in bedding, but more like art, where our minds would be pushed together
And we’d figure out a world we could lope through enchanting.
Words fell from my mouth and you rattled back,
I’d figured the game though – having always to counter-attack
For you knew what I was angling for, as soon as I cast my line,
That jungle fever you have scented a hundred times,
Or more, no doubt, as the hunter enters your green-eyed den,
But fails in his quest, and leaves dispirited without.
There would be no tale to tell of how the beautiful one had fallen,
For his charm to disarm, and how we long-laughed about it after,
And the groom guffawed ‘You put him in his box that night alright!’
Yes, our box: always fragile, but when right side up,
Held this thing’s delight, but I lost you then, and I lose you again.
Actually, I lose with each morning’s new light.
Nothing will ever look the same, since Tipperary, Four A.M.