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March 18th, 2024 
Awake Goy 
The haunting memories of olden times comes from the blood which runs in my veins-
Vague shadowy flashes of desperate foggy nights with cold driving rains-
The land of yesteryear located half way around the world from here and now-
Those brave lads who would rather die on their feet than to bow-
To the English dogs who presumed to be somehow born superior to the Gaelic race-
A people born with their backs to the wall, their hands fitted to both the plow, sword and mace-
Born to hardship, struggle fighting against being seen as a lower cast in their own land-
Is why the sword and mace as well as the plow became fitted to their hand-
Poetry, music and song became ingrained into their blood driven there by the struggle to survive-
A stubbornness tempered by generations of hardship became the food of soul which kept their race alive-
In desperation they left their home for places and wars around the world these lads with blood so wild-
Yet still in the blood itself remains a memory, a love of a land so long and far away, that Emerald Isle.
The Ole Dog!
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