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.


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