Every now and then I get the very peculiar urge to write poetry. Most of what I write is generally rather light and pithy. I harbor no surreptitious notions of ever being a poet proper. So, without further adieu. Here is a little poem for you. It’s called An Irish Camping Poem.

 An Irish Camping Poem.

A camping we will go,

through rain and wind and snow,

blue fingers, frozen noses,

half hour ’til the bar closes,

pick up the tent,

it’s time we’re leaving so.