| Well my father was a drunkard
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| And my stepma was a nag
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| And life in the streets of Dublin
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| Was nothing about to brag
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| With the work lines getting longer
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| And hunger on the breeze
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| Met a carney from Killarney
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| And he sang these words to me
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| Hey ho diddle-ee dee
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| If it’s free you want to be
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| Jump the ship to Boston
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| Fight a Yankee in the ring
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| Well I grew up as a fighter
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| My teacher was the streets
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| Where the taste of blood in your mouth
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| Was never out of reach
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| These fists were made of iron
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| But never made to steal
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| So I followed the words of a carney
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| And to Boston I did sail
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| So I slept under bridges
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| And jumped a train or three
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| An honest day’s work
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| Won’t take a Mick like me
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| I surely couldn’t dance
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| And hell if I could sing
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| But I’d pistol whip a Yankee
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| If you just put me in the ring
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| The brawlin' turned to fightin'
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| And the bruises turned to gold
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| The hunger turned to pride
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| As the wins began to roll
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| And I think about the carney
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| Who sang the distant chord
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| If you go and fight the Yankees
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| You’ll be champion of the world! |