He found a land of sundry folk.
The low were plain, the low were good
The high were proud, the high were spoilt:
What feasts they had
When others had no bread.

What Patrick felt he dared not say:
These creatures of slithery slime.
His conscience pricked, his soul rebelled:
What snakes are here
What snakes are all around.

He stopped to think, decided then:
The snakes, they had to go.

For years on end he tried and tried
Poor Paddy did his best.
He searched the woods
And combed the fields
To see if they were there.
He found a lot and drove them out,
He cleared whole lengths of land.
And when he paused to gather strength
He thought then to himself:
What snakes have left
What snakes have still to go.

How time has passed
How times have changed:
Now Patrick is our saint.
And standing back
We view the scene
And think of then and now:
The palms are greased, the pockets lined
The feasts they still go on.
And so it leaves us wondering:
What snakes did go
What snakes were left behind?