by Gemeniguy
(Northern Adirondacks)

The year was eighteen-forty eight.
And Molly knew she couldn’t wait.
Many she knew had already died.
It was time to cross to the other side.

Molly had seen enough of the blight.
She’d rather dance on a Saturday night.
Slow starvation was not in her book.
So she thought about what she might cook.

Three out of ten didn’t make it across.
But Molly was not one of the lost.
Only damage was a tear in her slip,
She got stepping off the coffin ship.

Along the way she’d been thinking,
What Irish folk song’s not about drinking?
So she went half share on a rotgut still,
Well hidden way back in the hills.

But she got busted and received the max,
For failure to pay federal excise tax.
But Molly’s beauty began to kick in,
And the judge’s head started to spin.

Molly had blue eyes and red hair.
And all the judge could do is stare.
Blue eyes and red hair were her saviour.
She got off despite bad behavior.

Now was the time to complete her run.
Molly was going to get it done.
She knew she was a beautiful mick,
And could pretty much take her pick.

Didn’t take her a very long time.
She married the owner of the iron mine.
She had as many kids as she could,
Just like a good Catholic girl would.

Gone were memories of rotted potatoes.
Everything now was fresh tomatoes.
Molly knew that she had finally won.
But she was one of the lucky ones.

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