| A hand held over a candle in angst-fuelled bravado
|
| A carbon trail scores a moist stretched palm
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| Trapped in the indecision of another fine menu
|
| And you sit there and ask me to tell you the story so far
|
| This is the story so far
|
| Shuffling your memories dealing your doodles in margins
|
| You scrawl out your poems across a beer-mat or two
|
| And when you declare the point of grave creation
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| They turn round and ask you to tell them the story so far
|
| This is the story so far
|
| And you listen with a tear in your eye
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| To their hopes and betrayals and your only reply
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| Is slàinte mhath
|
| Princes in exile raising the standard drambuie
|
| Parading their anecdotes tired from old campaigns
|
| Holding their own last orders commanding attention
|
| We sit here and listen to all of the story so far
|
| This is the story so far
|
| Take it away, take it away, take it away, take me away
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| From the dreams on the barbed wire at flanders and bilston glen
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| From a clydesdale that rusts from the tears of it’s broken men
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| From the realisation that all we’ve been left behind
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| Is to stand like our fathers before us in the firing line
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| Waiting on the whistle to blow, we stand here waiting
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| On the whistle to blow
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| They promised us miracles, and the whistle still blows
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| Broken promises, and the whistle still blows
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| The whistle still blows |