boiled.

i make a pretty sh!tty irishman, duders.
for serious,
i gave it a shot,
but my predisposition towards earthy tones made my
green acres of worsted wool and heavy cotton look a whole lot
more like a russian runaway than a  leprechaun.
check the olive-isn't-kelly teleport:

ummmm.
albie sham-rock.
and what a sham it is, neighbors.
masquerading as a shillelagh-swinging peat-farmer masquerading as
a gulag-escapee from the siberian wilds.
ugh.
canceling out the ups with the downs,
and the triumphs with the tragedies,
and all the small victories with enormous routs.
damn, that's a hard style.
but it's not ever very easy being ugly, y'know?
and it's especially rough when the pot of gold is missing,
and the rainbow map you're following is fading away
far faster than that full-spectrum arc can predict a trajectory
towards the capture and cajoling of that one-shoed cobbler hiding
in the clovers.
so,
i guess that just leaves being dope.
right.
how's that going?
about as well as you'd guess, kids.
if arguing and systematically deconstructing events
into compartmentalized constituents and sequential semi-professional
consequences and subsequences is what we're calling the new hottness?
well,
then i'm most definitely taking that sh!t to eleven.
but if it's not,
then i'm probably just gonna have to F* right off for a little minute,
regroup with a firmer grasp and a tighter grip,
and come back atcha with that barbarian berserker battle-beast jauns.
y'heard?
i think more of giving less F*s is in order.
and even more of doing what needs doing has got to happen.
i mean it.
all of everything else almost always is, after all.
that's a thing.
hard-styles,
and pounding,
headaches and heartbreaks and burnt bridges and sinking ships,
and a whole lot of three-leaf and four leaf and lucky flippin' charms,
but definitely no marshmallows....
i don't know;
never quiet, never soft.....