Kissing the Irish Blarney Stone

Kissing the Irish Blarney Stone

I climbed up high, with shaky knees,

To kiss the stone—oh, what a tease!

I leaned right back, like I was told,

Fearing I’d fall, or worse—grow old!

The stone was cold, a bit too grim,

But they said, “Kiss it, don’t be dim!”

So I puckered up, closed one eye,

Hoping my luck would multiply.

They say it gives a silver tongue,

But all I got was a sore lung.

I made my wish, it didn’t stick,

Maybe next time, I’ll give it a lick

I wished for silver then thought no

I want gold security for when I am old.

But the little stone didn’t want to know.

What a wasted trip with nothing to show