if i had some Irish blood
i supposed i could understand
my temper:

how much i sweat
and how red my face gets
(if not covered by this unthick beard
(which would probably be red,
and caramel skin)
would make much more
sense, would be okay,
accepted, in fact,
so much so that i would simply be
the product of my father, my mother,
Benedict, and Guinness.

instead i am an enigma,
an anomaly,
someone who missed out
when the Latin ease was handed out:
i missed the last bottle of Corona
and instead had to drink whisky.

it angrers up my non-Irish blood
(i think i'm impure).

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