Take Yeats and Sligo, and all the rest,

the Blarney Stone, the Celtic Knot, the Emerald

this and the Emerald that, and place it,

please, in a dumpster. If you will. 

I don't want it. Take the passion, the drink,

the sodden tweed and remove it

somewhere distant, more distant, for across

the sea is not far enough, for there it is,

still chunking out its woolen passion.

Take Joyce, please, and the Chieftains,

and all their ilk (they're all the same), take 

Cork and Dublin, take Belfast, please,

take the Orange, the I.R.A., take

the Troubles and heave them all into the sea.

But, most of all, predictably, take her,

and though no sea is deep enough, nor land

so distance that she will not return, take her,

and grind her up to little bits, and scatter 

those little bits from here to there, and

maybe that will do, though it's unlikely. 

There is magic in her, and her homeland, 

that defies the simple remedy. What good

is wishing her away, or mincing her, 

when there be fairies to put her right?