pineapplemongoose

I counted the shades of green in the land of my father's fathers and set my watch back a hundred years. I wrapped my tongue, loosened by rich pints of warm Guinnesss, around the Gaelic and got punch drunk on the words of Yeats Irish eyes and fiddle music. I found the song of Erin is a Pan reed boat lost out on Galway Bay where bards stitch their words into fishing nets and dream of old gods under the moons of Connemara.