Oh Lord, how I'd love to be Irish!
The Irish are nothing but hot,
and they've gotten incredibly stylish-
but Irish is what I am not.

I'm not even partially Irish-
not even on March seventeen,
when everyone gets all perspirish
and guzzles the emerald-green.

My name doesn't translate to Irish,
or start with an "Mc" or an "O",
so no matter how Molly Maguire-ish
I'm feeling, it's hopeless, I know.

I'm dying to fib just a little,
for maybe a day or a week,
and pound the bodhran, play the fiddle,
and break into brogue when I speak.

I'd call myself Nuala or Dylan
or Eamon or Seamus or Frank,
and it's sure that I'd be very willin'
to step-dance my way to the bank.

Of course, that's a little too sneaky—
in fact, I would feel like a dork
neglecting to mention Milwaukee,
pretending that I was from Cork.

But Lord, how I'd love to be Irish,
be one of those glamorous Celts—
now that anything Emerald Isle-ish
is cooler than everything else!