The Irish Island of Oz

Fire is dying boys, gracefully ceasing your smoke
The wicked are resting, Fallin’ apple tree broke
A verse for a penny, a pound for a tune
I’ll tell you my story, this cold afternoon

Drool on the pillow and spit on the ground
Shoulder to Shoulder, barking drunken hounds
Spilling craft on their calves, beer on their beards
being sober on a sunday it suddenly a fear

Go home to the slaver you could call your wife
“Yar a feckin drunken mess, why ye livin this life?”
“I Thought I did love ya darling, never did it change”
“agh just drink down your pints and give us your wage!”

“Our kids a half-brain, he will never go far!,
Delightful young dimwit just like his da”
“That door to honest work son, Is quite ajar
Ya’ll be digging up dirt in the depths of Armagh”

However,

We can all help build that yellow brick road
to the closest public house
By pissing out everything we get in
and drenching our witches with the taps

Three lions, three tigers, three bears and one cub
Two lager, two lovers, two lounges and one pub
One bacon fry, one peanut, one blackcurrant, packet of king
No goals, no desires, no point
It’s that salt and vinegar sting.