03/18/2026
’Twas the night after St. Paddy’s, and all through the place,
Not a pint glass was stirring—no more breakfast shots to the face.
The taps had run freely, the whiskey poured strong,
Loud cheers and joyous singing that lasted all day long.
Green shirts and bright smiles, the craic filled the air,
With strangers as friends and not one single care.
The kitchen now quiet, no tickets to call,
No clatter of pans or last orders at all.
The staff, though exhausted, wore pride on their face,
For surviving the madness with grit and with grace.
So we raise one last whisper, though voices are low,
To the best day of the year that too quickly did go.
The pub now lies quiet, its doors closed today,
For rest and for mending in our own Irish way.
Sláinte