Irish Dancing Eyes

Great-Grandma Irene Donahue,
a dazzling dish from County Mead,
she set men on fire,
making their women pea-green.

James, an English church going man,
her charms flamed under his skin.
He brought her home to America,
and introduced her to his kin.

I wish I could have seen their faces,
prim and proper, I am sure.
Great-Grandpa seemed to have gotten
much more than he bargained for.

After marriage and children,
she'd settle down, be a proper girl.
Then, humming an Irish bar song
her feet danced a lusty whirl.

Since I was just knee high,
her fascinating legend grew.
She had a way of telling stories
that caused a blush or two.

When she was in her eighties,
she would whisper in Dad's ear,
"Carl, take me down to the tavern"
she craved male attention there.

Her daughters were ashamed.
They thought mother was a joke.
Dad said she was a special lady,
and the rest were uptight folk.

I sure wish I had known her.
Irene is young and bright
in one badly wrinkled picture.
Her eyes dance with magical Irish light.