Irish woodlands are mystical places,
Where shamrocks and toadstools thrive in damp moss,
Where fairies and leprechauns leave traces
To follow, so that they never get lost.
But if a wanderer takes a wrong turn,
There is slim chance that he’ll ever be found.
To locals, that would be of small concern,
For they won’t venture onto haunted ground.
Nobody will admit this lore is true,
As tourist dollars are badly in need.
The Chamber of Commerce sure won’t tell you,
But if you’re wise, this warning you will heed.
Foreigners go missing every year,
Especially around St. Patrick’s Day.
Unexplainably, they just disappear,
If down any woodland path they should stray.
Whispering, locals say strollers were changed,
By wee forest dwellers who cast a spell -
Molecules and atoms all rearranged,
As they lay prone on the moss where they fell.
Toadstools, mere mushrooms to grow in the moss,
Changed by the wave of a leprechaun’s hand,
Leaving puzzled loved ones to mourn their loss.
Reluctant police claim they’re undermanned.
No extensive searches ever commence,
And no records of the missing are stored,
So no one knows how many were lost, hence
Full scope of the mystery is ignored.
© By RickMack (email@example.com)
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