irsh love?
oh please. tis a sad sad story when talking irish love. the bottle knows all about it. tis the bottle, and not a living thing, that knows more about irish love, than the irish know about the bottle. ken it and what becomes tween the two, and maybe, on a sonny day somewhere, prhaps after a wee trickle with a wonderous lass, you might, just might find, some bit of sense in all that. until then, follow the spirial girial and every skein you can prove to where it was woven, and then, with good luck, and a bit of fancy, you might well say, you know just a tad, about, irish love. but you will never ever know, the mythman, for even when, the darkest hight comes upon his street, and there are still bright lamps, even, the shadow does not know. he is the mythman, and his legend follows him.
so many unpaid tabs that bastard is going to prison for more than two lifetimes, i can tell ya, no blarney.
end of fucking irish story! kilearny that right up your joystick.
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