| Introduction by Ronnie,
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| James Joyce is renown for written some very
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| Very complicated material
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| Surprisingly he wrote the next song, which is very simple
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| Have you heard o' one Humpty Dumpty?
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| How he fell with a roll and a rumble
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| Crawled up like lord Oliver Crumble
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| As the boot of the magazine wall
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| The magazine wall, hump helmet and all
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| He was one time our king of the castle
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| Now he’s kicked about like a rotten old parsnip
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| And from Green Street he’ll be sent
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| By order of his worth ship
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| To the penal jail of Mount Joy
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| To the jail of Mount Joy, jail him with joy
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| He was for father of all things for to bother us
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| Slow coaches and the market contraceptive for the metropolis
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| Mayors milk for the sick
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| Seven dry Sunday’s a week
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| Open air love and religion reform
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| Religion reforms, so hideous and forms
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| And o' why says you couldn’t he menage it
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| I’ll go bail me fine dearie mount darling
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| Like the bumping bullet the Cassidy’s
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| All his butter’s in his horns
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| His butter’s in his horns, butter his horns
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| Sweet Pad looks to the waves washed to old Ireland
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| The hooker of the hammer fast Viking
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| And gold’s cursing the day that at Blanna bay
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| Saw his black and tan men a war
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| Saw his black and tan men a war, at the Harber bar
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| He was jointed by Wellington’s monument
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| O' a retorious hippo' po potomus
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| When some bugger let down the back strap at the omnibus
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| And he got his dead with of fusiliers
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| When he’s rented his rears, give em six years
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| Oh he’ll have a free trade gaels banned in mass meeting
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| For to saws that brave son of Scandinavery
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| And we’ll berry him down in Oxmond’s Town
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| Along with the devil and Dane’s
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| The death and dom Dane’s, and all their remains
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| Now all the Kings men not his horses
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| Could never resurrect his corpses
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| For there’s no true spell, in Curington hell
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| That’s able to raise a cane |