" The Irish passion is a woman.

She is the ancient, and the angry, the loved, and the cruel.

She is the red haired woman of flame black eyes, sweet as a bitter wine.

Iye, she is that, thee, and nothing at all, as long as her children sleep at peace.

Iye, children...sweet dreamers...loved more by the lioness of touched mind, a madness.

Fear men this woman as she draws these babes close, arms as strong as any bar of iron.

As length ends, ends, the Irish woman...black eyed demon, and sow of the mother hearths.

Such is my passion, my childe wrapped close, lips bitter. Fighting men, know thy place in these.

Touch m' childe, and Iye, your balls will seek as hells great poker! "