Sonas – Sonata in C
Every storyteller knows to spin an Irish yarn,
it must be set to music first,
conveying all its charm.
Where fairies fly, no human eye,
could daftly plot their course,
though Irish eyes will tell the lie
with n’er an ounce remorse.
To draw across a fiddler’s bow
the peasant song is born,
and Irish voices, raspy, yet,
cause Leprechauns to mourn.
So pick up flute and pipes and bones
and lace your booties, might.
An Irish jig the size of Dublin
echoes through the night.
No poet, Celt, with bodhran beat
would ever story tell,
without the proper notes and half
their fable for to sell.