Three Seventeen

this is something i wrote about a parade that occurs annually in my home town

hey buddy wake up, grab a liter
there's nothing better than bushmills
first thing in the morning

the snow stopped falling
and tradition is calling
today we stand on broadway
streams of green white and orange.

3/17 more than another day to you and me
takes us back to the way it used to be
as if we needed a reminder

singing the songs of our grandfathers
pounding bottle after bottle after bottle
proudly showing our true colors

pitchers of guinness, local politicians
and if you havent been here before
yes those are cops and yes theyre drinking
fighting yuppies, welcome to southie
you dont know this struggle, im not sorry

pipe and drum brigades, tin whistles and fifes play all day
my solo cup is never empty
drunk and full of cabbage and cornedbeef

feeling united, feeling alive again, strong sense of pride here
on this day, in the town that we grew up in
twenty six cases, between seventeen of us
i wonder where the time went, woke up on the kitchen floor
sporting a wonderful hangover

wonder what today has in store
mark off the next three hundred sixty five days off my calendar