A hand held over a candle in angst-fuelled bravado
|
A carbon trail scores a moist stretched palm
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Trapped in the indecision of another fine menu
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And you sit there and ask me to tell you the story so far
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This is the story so far
|
|
Shuffling your memories dealing your doodles in margins
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You scrawl out your poems across a beer-mat or two
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And when you declare the point of grave creation
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They turn round and ask you to tell them the story so far
|
|
This is the story so far
|
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And you listen with a tear in your eye
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To their hopes and betrayals and your only reply
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Is Slainte Mhath
|
|
Princes in exile raising the standard Drambuie
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Parading their anecdotes tired from old campaigns
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Holding their own last orders commanding attention
|
We sit here and listen to all of the story so far
|
|
This is the story so far
|
|
Take it away, take it away, take it away, take me away
|
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From the dreams on the barbed wire at Flanders and Bilston Glen
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From a Clydesdale that rusts from the tears of it's broken men
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From the realisation that all we've been left behind
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Is to stand like our fathers before us in the firing line
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Waiting on the whistle to blow, we stand here waiting
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On the whistle to blow
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They promised us miracles, and the whistle still blows
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Broken promises, and the whistle still blows
|
The whistle still blows
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|
-----------------
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Slainte Mhath
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| Fish |
