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lyrics
Oh the cursed air that seeps up from the scum in the canal
And it drifts down to the southside where the whiter collars dwell
And there the coppers bag it, book it, nick it and return
And they push it down the stairwell where the Store St. junkies burn.
And the Dublin city council boys are digging up the street.
“We’re looking for its soul,” they say, and the Yank says “Hey that’s neat”.
“This hole has no more soul than my own,” rejoins Beroo,
As she slips into oblivion on sensimilia’s sweet perfume.
The Yank is discommoded by the way we take him off
And he covers his disgruntlement with a dry, embarrassed cough.
“Ah these Celts are fucking crazy, they will drink the Dodder dry,
And sing and write it afterwards pretending everything’s alright”.
A bottle of champagne and a card that says “Right,
Celebrate quick before things turn shite”.
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.
And the wagtails on O’Connell St. are behind in the rent
But when the bailiff comes around they shit upon his head.
He fumbles for his hankie, says “If it were up to me
But I don’t make the rules, lads”.
Is this a dagger I see before me boys?
Skewering the sky where the trees lie down.
Beroo is feeling homesick and she’s thinking of her Da.
She says “He will not last the winter,
The pigeon-lunged, cabbage-ridden, pig-shaving, chicken-chasing, five-toothed, nine-fingered, half-arsed, broken-mouthed, arthritic, cross-dressing, cross-mullioned, gutless, chinless, feckless, spineless, legless
Oul fucker”
The Yank got caught in rain, and he is shaking like a dog
And he’s cursing 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.
Now Beroo is horny, but she’s fearful of disease
And 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.
And the rain comes down
As the American slides into a new skin.
Oh nothing’s really broken, or nothing you can see.
“It’s just as well I’m dumb,” he says, “and cannot really feel.
But what’s this thing that empties out and shrivels up inside?
And whispers in the nighttime as the revellers go by.”
Oh faith is being tempted and faith is feeling weak
As Beroo and the American fall together in the heat.
Oh stinking is the city, but it never doesn’t stink.
At least it’s the smell of life, not death.
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