James Augustine Aloysius Joyce
A perfect specimen to be sure
In whose works the whole world rejoiced
For with clever wit and powerful voice
He unveiled our illusions of grandeur
Not a noble, knight, or king
Just an Irish drunkard of sorts
Perhaps those are the same thing
Anyhow, a striking human being
Of that, no one can retort
More than a man, an epiphany
He scripted great tales of Ulysses
While wasting few words, if any
Few contemporaries, but admirers many
We still labor under his grave auspices
Finnegan’s Way aside
There was not much he didn’t say
With great skill and pride
It was a sad day when he died
In Dublin--everyday is Bloomsday