nix and nots
bones will brattle,
dirt be dirt
’tis dirt the battle
boiling sky
over greened hill
the grave be deep
with dirt thus fill
danced about
the rags and skin
those that left
are kith and kin
kilts will fly
plaid pleated skirts
though all will be
returned to dirt
you may mock
with callow voice
the takers box
’tis not your choice
though dirt you are
and thus you return
to heavens grace or
in hell you burn
go on then laddie
lift yer pint of ale
toast those fellows
you love who fell
they wait you now
with fetid breath
expect you there
when you tempt death
©2011, Donald Harbour
Donald Harbour Poetry 
Aye, lad, but tis in the heart of man to tempt death, to laugh in his face and whistle in the graveyard. We’ll not be turned aside by the fear of Hell.
My Irish blood has been thinned in the last 200 years, Donald, but the link still stands; the breeding was true. There is something of the devil-take-care attitude that survives all attempts to eradicate it—and will, until I return to dirt.
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