My land is bogged down in religious tradition
We nod our heads in humble submission
One foot in the door
A hand in your pocket
We export our problems for foreign solutions.
My land is naive
Too scared of the devil
Holier than though
With eyes up to heaven
And when nobody looks
We tear strips off our neighbour
Have a good laugh at it all in the end.
Chorus:
Shrouded in mist the outlook’s appalling
Pressure is rising and temperature’s falling
Sunny spells and scattered showers
And still it rains for hours and hours
And as the floods rise
We’ll drown our sorrows
Tossing them back like there is no tomorrow
And in the end we’ll sit or stand
and piss it back into the bogholes of Ireland.
My land is too fond of incurable scheming
The promises given are nothing but dreaming
We all love a rogue
We’ll make him our leader
But every three years it’s right back to zero.
My land is still poor and under developed
We talk round our problems for hours on end
And then we decide there’s two sides to the story
And have a good laugh at it all in the end.
Chorus