New lyrics celebrating an old saint’s ingenuity;
A Poetic Protest of Soul Patches

I’m looking over
a three-leaf clover
that Saint Patrick saw before.
One leaf’s the Father.
The second’s the Son.
Third is the Spirit.
There’s three yet there’s one.
It takes explaining
’cause faith is waning.
There’s absence of mystery.
In Dublin or Dover
St. Paddy’s clover
can teach us the Trinity.

St. Pat the preacher
was one grand teacher
to illustrate truth through weeds.
Old Mother Nature
revealed Father God.
Clovers decoded
what many found odd.
In Shamrock City
I pray this ditty
will reclaim an old saint’s fame.
He was a master.
A much-loved pastor.
Let’s honor St. Patrick’s name.

A Poetic Protest of Soul Patches

A call to end one hair-raising trend.

A moustache can be debonair.
A go-tee’s kind of nice.
But what some grow below their mouth
is neither fire nor ice.

That clump of hair they boast down there
beneath their lower lip
I guess is spose to make them look
as if they’re cool and hip.

But let me say that soul patch thing
is really quite bizarre.
It looks as if they’ve washed their face
but missed a splotch of tar.

Don’t patch your soul. Just let it be.
Some hair’s best left unseen
unless (come ol’ Saint Paddy’s Day)
you dye your soul patch green.