It was Christmas Eve, bud
Up in gangland
A skanger said to me
"Won't see another one"
And then he walked away
As if t'was som'thin he knew
I followed, screaming,
"Eh, are y'on about me or you?"
Got on a lucky one
Inner Northside Dublin scum
Pessimistic peasants
Who expect nothing from me
But then the middle class
Started giving plenty sass
Said, "Bertie, what you at?
Good plumbers don't grow on trees."
We've got pills, we've got coke
We've got smack, we've got smoke
But if I have my way
We'll have scared, sober folk,
When you first took my hand
Back in Autumn this year
You promised me, "Tainiste, As one we'll strike fear!"
You were slimy
You were scary
Much better than Mary
As Fine Gael took up whinging we took to the floor
Kenny was grousing
'Bout affordable housing
We laughed coz who'd ever give a vote to that bore?
The boys in Tallaght, Swords and Southill
Were dying, true, no doubt
And we cried, "Tougher sentencing
Will sort ye out."
You're a fraud, Charlie's patsy
You're a weak fucking Nazi
Getting rid of the blacks
And the poor and the knacks
You're corrupt, you're a liar
Your egotism is dire
Happy Christmas, me arse
Though, please God, not our last
The boys in Rahoon and Gurranabraher
Are reducing their townlands to rubble
And we cried, "A few new guards
Will end this trouble!"
I could have had it all
Well, you're with Fianna Fàil,
Imagine the likes of me
Encumbered with being a PD!
I'll take you with me, babe
I'll drag you anywhere
We might be bad together
But there's fun in feeble strategy...
The boys in Moyross and Clon-dalk-in
Are shooting each other dead
But the sand's a great place for us
To rest the head.
Up in gangland
A skanger said to me
"Won't see another one"
And then he walked away
As if t'was som'thin he knew
I followed, screaming,
"Eh, are y'on about me or you?"
Got on a lucky one
Inner Northside Dublin scum
Pessimistic peasants
Who expect nothing from me
But then the middle class
Started giving plenty sass
Said, "Bertie, what you at?
Good plumbers don't grow on trees."
We've got pills, we've got coke
We've got smack, we've got smoke
But if I have my way
We'll have scared, sober folk,
When you first took my hand
Back in Autumn this year
You promised me, "Tainiste, As one we'll strike fear!"
You were slimy
You were scary
Much better than Mary
As Fine Gael took up whinging we took to the floor
Kenny was grousing
'Bout affordable housing
We laughed coz who'd ever give a vote to that bore?
The boys in Tallaght, Swords and Southill
Were dying, true, no doubt
And we cried, "Tougher sentencing
Will sort ye out."
You're a fraud, Charlie's patsy
You're a weak fucking Nazi
Getting rid of the blacks
And the poor and the knacks
You're corrupt, you're a liar
Your egotism is dire
Happy Christmas, me arse
Though, please God, not our last
The boys in Rahoon and Gurranabraher
Are reducing their townlands to rubble
And we cried, "A few new guards
Will end this trouble!"
I could have had it all
Well, you're with Fianna Fàil,
Imagine the likes of me
Encumbered with being a PD!
I'll take you with me, babe
I'll drag you anywhere
We might be bad together
But there's fun in feeble strategy...
The boys in Moyross and Clon-dalk-in
Are shooting each other dead
But the sand's a great place for us
To rest the head.
15 comments:
OH-MY-GOD! Brilliant! Excellentey! Fabulousuc!
I bow to your awesomeness, dude.
Bravo! Most excellent.
That moment of superb satire and utter joy was almost ruined for me by Flutt's utterly unnecessary reference to a Brendan Courteney catchphrase.
I worked long and hard threatening that buffoon to leave the country and I'm not going to have people evoking his twee campness in case he returns.
You should send those lyrics to Shane. If he sobered up and isn't dead yet, he'd probably sing them.
Oh, and I also take credit for inspiring you.
Brilliant. Sweary at her poetic best!
jc skinner, These are MY words,I created them. Which one did your man steal from me?
Great
I sang it all the way through. Very cool.
And I went to school in Clon-dalk-in, though haven't seen it in a song before - the nearest was Dustin's Chapelizod.
The last one. I can't even bring myself to type it.
praise would be too obvious. it made me think of bertie in a jail cell in new york talking to drunks, and being the only one able to communicate with them. more please...
Fucking classic stuff!
Superb.Come to Washington and be my speech writer.
Sure poetry flows eternal from a dram of the Jameson!
Bravo!
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