Song of the Irish Whistle

SONG OF THE IRISH WHISTLE

(with apologies to Joanie Madden)

Sure, it's a holy instrument

Like everything that comes from God

You must learn to touch her reverently

Like Father Kelly's Holy Wafer

Or a patch of Irish sod.

Close your lips around her fipple

And thru her narrow airway

Blow a prayer across that tilted floor

Called "labium" when there's one of them

And "labia" when there's more.

Now the noise she makes is frightful

Like a pack o' banshees climaxin'

The men are rising from their seats

And now your life depends

On the music you can coax from her

With your fancy fingerin'

Sure, breathin' (and tonguin') have to be mastered

But they're just a part o' the thing

For it's movin' your flesh

Across the openings, laddie,

That makes the Irish whistle sing.

You may play in a grove

You may play in a pub

You may play with a maid in the spring

But playing the Irish whistle

You must mind your fingering

For it's movin' flesh across the openings

That makes the Irish whistle sing.

Sure, it's movin' flesh across the openings

That makes the Irish whistle sing.