Well I go to lie me head down for a spell and free me mind of the burdens of the day. Saint Patricks Day is morn and the ghosts of past will dance with the living as some attempt to reach a higher plane by poisoning the present. It really is one day that in many areas blind fucking shit faced drunks are loved for nothing more than their smiling booze drenched faces glowing with the fuel of spirits and barley pop. Raise a glass and praise the Irish, for no man nor King has managed to drench their spirit. That they can do quite well by themselves. Slainte!

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there… I do not sleep.
I am the thousand winds that blow…
I am the diamond glints on snow…
I am the sunlight on ripened grain…
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you waken in the morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of gentle birds in circling flight…
I am the soft star that shines at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry—
I am not there… I did not die…