The world is a shit place, lets not play pretend.
Everything is a bloody mess.
I can write you a lyric poem, if you want me to,
I can talk about the sun reflecting on glass for forty lines,
And we can all sing about beauty and sigh,
And bury ourselves in the comforting lie.
These Dublin boys are bleeding out neglect in broken needles,
Pissing outside the Blooms hotel, long since lost.
Ah sure, God is watching over us, ah sure,
Some old Irish bucket of crap, we disappear
Into apathy, disappear and never come back.
We need something outside of that.