Shamrocks engraved in the wooden doors,
To match the symbols on the concrete floors,
As the chairs scrape and scratch away at its face,
I marvel how it seems to hold together this place.

But the smoking fire which lights the room,
Just delays the coming of certain gloom,
When the whiskey's flow is dried again,
And soberness floods in with the past's dull pain.

Old men sit and pass the time,
Smoking pipes, recall mythsand rhymes,
'Bout the olden days, so pure and good,
When life was lived as God determined it should.

They the remainder of the ancient roots,
We merely results of their tree bearing fruits,
They dug down deep to take hold of the land,
Through rock and stone with bleeding hands.

 Now in upturned fertile soil we lie,
Watered with the tears the women cried,
To watch their men need fight and beat,
Each acre and mountain to admit defeat.

So I raise a toast to the wizened faces,
Who's sacrifice lies in forgotten places,
Thanks be to all whether in shadow or known,
For allowing me a land I can call my own.