| lad it’s your duty to find ye a lass
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| with child bearing hips and a pink supple ass
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| and make her your wife and love her with love so true
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| now some rivers run high some rivers run low
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| when her river runs red and shes startin her flow
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| and it called menstruation and heres what it means to you
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| you will notice her bloomers are spotty at first
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| stand back her ovarian dams gunna burst
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| son dont be afraid it’s a natural thing
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| just wad up some cotton and hand her some string
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| put the old linens on top of the bed
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| get out of the house and go down to the old pub instead
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| she’ll retain her water, her breasts will be tender
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| and every third word that you say will offend her
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| get out of the house and go down to the old pub instead
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| and she’ll want to make love if you do your a fool
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| cuz you’ll only end up with a bloody old tool
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| get out of the house
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| down to the old pub instead
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| and shell want you to sample the fruit of her loins but son it will taste like
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| some old rusty coins
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| so turn off the lights boy and take off your hat and drop to your knees,
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| say a prayer to saint pat
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| that he’ll give you the strength to get out of the bed and for irelands sake go
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| down to the old pub instead
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| now the pub is the place where the lads are a meetin
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| when the moons full and the gals are a’bleedin
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| the catholic, the protestant, and even the pagan
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| the pub is the place when ur lady is raggin
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| so drink of ur pint boys and thank your shamrocks that as menfolk we dont have
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| to bleed from our cocks
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| and that we can escape from the lady in red
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| and get out of the house and go down to the old pub instead |