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Folk Song

Oh the cursed air that seeps up from the scum in the canal
And it drifts down to the south side where the whiter collars dwell
And there the coppers bag it, book it, nick it and return
And they push it down the stair well where the Store Street junkies burn

And the ra ra boys from Telecom are diggin up the street
We’re looking for its soul they say, the yank says hey, that’s neat
Oh this hole has got no more soul than my own rejoins Beroo
As she drifts into oblivion on sensemelia's sweet perfume

And do you still take comfort in cheap beer and cigarettes
And doing crosswords through the night-time when the pain’s a frequent guest

Ballybough is baking, it’s congealing in the heat
With dehydrated dogshit the consistency of peat
The Iberians are laughing at some secret airbrushed joke
Beroo she bites back curses, she is dying for a smoke

There’s a boat down in Dunleary with blood upon its decks
With 5,000 horny sailors with balls like jockey’s necks
19 year old peace keepers looking for a piece of ass
With sperm catchers in arse pockets and breastplates fat with cash

And what do you give ear now, what’s your favourite sounds
Or have you packed it all in, there’ll be no more god damned second hand sentimentality

Now Beroo is homesick and she’s thinking of her Da
She says he will not last the winter
The monstrous googly arthtritic pot bellied pig humping oul fucker

The yank got caught in rain and he is shaking like a dog
And he curses our fair climate with its sunny rainy fog
And he’s thinking of his mot who’s fat with someone else’s child
Back home in Saratoga where the weather’s always mild

And the boyos long of copper have been effortlessly creamed
As the price it lemmings lower on their winking blinking screens
The Sassanach have been routed by the blithe rampaging hun
And they weep into their bitter while the gleeful Celt looks on

And the Yallabelly’s weeping with uncontaminated joy
He says, Oh man I can’t take it all in
It’s been 19 years of banging our head against a brick wall, but now
It’s all come home

And I’m thinking on September and the colour of your skin
And the victory muses space between the misery and gin
Temple Bar is hopping with the Beauteous and jarred
And I’m thinking on Long John and you and sun and cards

And the rain comes down
Oh hun hun hun, it’s a vengence I hardly deserve

Beroo is feeling horny but she’s fearful of disease
As she sizes up the American with his skin like cream cheese
And he’s re-reading the letter that came from Yankland today
About the child that is not his