Tis a shame, yes a shame I say, that you be wearing nothing green.
For your mother kept a vow to help you find your favorite dream.
She cooked and baked and washed your clothes, and on this special day,
Your Gaelic blood does cry for you to not forget her name.
She spoke to you of walking through the marshes and the bogs,
And of the chieftains of your clan with their Irish hunting dogs.
The simple joys of peasant folks in pretty Gaelic dress,
were meant for fun and revelry, and not for something less.
And if the wearing of the orange is something you'd prefer,
Remember that beneath it all hides truly what you are.
So now you seek a blessing from the fairies and the sprites,
to protect you from your childhood fears that plagued you in the nights.
As your mother rocked and sung to you that Irish lullaby,
She held you close to keep you warm, and stared into your eyes.
Do you feel the magic druids wrought from hugging all those trees?
Ah, tis a shame, I say it once again, you be wearing nothing green.
