Big Paddy met Mick in the pub Friday night.
said Paddy, “And where is old Sean?”
Well, Mick shook his head: “’Tis a terrible tale”
and Paddy, concerned, said, “Go on.”
So Mick took a drink and began, “Sean is dead.
It was only last week we were drinking
right here at this bar, then we left to walk home –
the right thing to do, we were thinking.
“I wasn’t too bad but old Sean was a state –
it was twenty eight Guinness that filled him –
he tripped on the rail line, a train came along,
ran over his finger and killed him.”
Now Mick shook his head; “His finger?” he said,
“How that killed him I just can’t suppose,”
but Paddy, in tears, told the rest of the tale:
“It was while he was picking his nose.”