The Leprechaun Within

every March seventeenth, the glint froom a perverted imp finds me achin' and if aye dig deep enough, this Goyish pseudo judo day yo criss chin can figuratively unearth a puckish (gnome like) elfish sprite with a layer ring ga Erin which byte size (key) ah man able troll help pan for treasure hunters plume bing the underworld with his (aye farm lee bull eve moost har male) sly grin stirring thy faux set (head) feigned Irish with in new mutter nada trace, (boot perhaps juiced an iota) o' Brogue kin Celtic gene found within me genealogical tree, an itty bitty min newt chromosomal thread, (which with assistance of Crispr) i.e., a more discerning Quaker can pin point how this predominantly (decrepit ole coot) Semitic baby boomer tub hoot (whale hugging ma gude look four leaf Shamrock) can locate long buried loot according to legend (plus devout avid fervent Irish Aunt Fib B. Hen aka Sally Salamander Newt) doth avail her excitement to help up root (perhaps revisiting a previously dug oop ditch) maybe treasure undetected cuz ova technical, and/or mechanical glitch truth to the tantalizing myth whar hike can hitch my dreams to a morning star, that would make a par man rich and put an end to mine fingers that hoo twitch which i roan nick pie rite (of quartz) alluding to healthy appetite, sans tea zing alluring (whet started as byte) size nar invisible craving, which fantasy easily didst excite (necessitating yars true lee) to don robe of foo fight tar, yet persistent and nagging lust didst light lore (akin to un hearth thing pot o' gold at rainbow's end), cuz hum ma penniless plight such dogged pursuit, a mirage, whereat aye drool in plain sight thus conk clue ding this hip poe eponymous droning pome though, tis plenti mo' hie hood write!