Print

Papal bulls, we've got them, decrees and fatwasFuck the Pope and all you ProdsFuck off home and don't be bothering GodDover Cliffs to Fort William, it's Gombeen Cha-ChaPigs the plushest parlours do despoilYour Navy spurned my boyhood aspirationsSo I'm back to break your nerve for validationGoing, I'm goingWhere rocks are bare and fog surrounds meGoing, I'm goingWhere power is destroyedCromwell's been dug up again, for sporting insultThe Saracens approach the coast, An Tiarna Mor _(Gaeilge: "the Overlord")_ offers them portsJunkyard pomp in Athlone, he preens and posturesSwabian bodyguards and wineZeppelins fill the sky at dawn in FishguardTeutons call the shots in the imperial backyardGoing, I'm goingA mansion grand with caverns underGoing, I'm goingTo bury all I knowSongtexteYeats and Wilde and Michael CollinsWere faces in your capitalEdmund Burke, Charles Stewart ParnellFaces in the capitalThey all learned to talk rightAnd wield the surrender penBut time's not a line, its course pre-definedYou won't see such weaklings againIn Lansdowne Vale, I was born poor and aimlessI learned to rob my betters blindNow I'm the Henry Ireton of the Saxon mindHave you met my anorexic chefs, my senile historians,my painters and singers, as they daub and croak?They dodder as their tapestry unravelsAs shards of empire mass over the ChannelGoing, I'm goingTo a cliff-top scorning dissolutionGoing, I'm goingThe papal pagan wayThe papal pagan way Aus Songtexte Mania