| My land is bogged down in religious tradition
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| We nod our heads in humble submission
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| One foot in the door a hand in your pocket
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| We export our problems for foreign solutions
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| My land is naive too scared of the devil
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| Holier than thou with eyes up to heaven
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| When nobody looks we tear strips off our neighbour
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| And to have a good laugh at it all in the end
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| Shrouded and mist the outlook’s appalling
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| Pressure is rising but temperature’s falling
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| Sunny spells and scattered showers
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| But still it rains for hours and hours
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| And as the floods rise we drown our sorrows
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| Tossing them back like there is no tomorrow
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| And in the end we’ll stick or stand
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| And p___ it back to the bog holes of Ireland
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| My land is too full of incurable scheming
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| The promises given are nothing but dreaming
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| We all love a rogue we’ll make him our leader
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| And every four years it’s right back to zero
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| My land is still poor and underdeveloped
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| We talk round our problems for hours on end
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| And then we decide there’s two sides to the story
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| And have a good laugh at it all in the end
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| Shrouded in mist the outlook’s appalling
|
| Pressure is rising but temperature’s falling
|
| Sunny spells and scattered showers
|
| And still it rains for hours and hours
|
| And as the floods rise we drown our sorrows
|
| Tossing them back like there is no tomorrow
|
| And in the end we will sit or stand
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| And p___ it back to the bog holes of Ireland |