We have forgotten the things we promised not to forget
And an old poem is rattling around inside my head
About a lost idea of Ireland, and the wishes of long gone hero's,
Over and over, 'was it for this?', 'was it for this?'.
On the evening news I watch the stupid bobbing heads lying
Through their soulless fixed grins, bloated uselessness
Squeezed into a nice suit. It's almost enough to make you wish
Bertie would come back, and at least make the situation amusing.
Misplaced, clichéd pride in a pint of the black stuff
Or stupid green hats and the cheapest of our fairytales
Serve as an excellent distraction while we surreptitiously take down the
Cead míle fáilte signs, not that anyone is coming.