Sing of the glory of the Gael of no color.

The Gael who is neither his own nor anothers.

Spin me a riddle to make sense of his pride,

To unravel the riddle that hides in plain sight

Sing of the glory of our great Celtic tribe.

Last lonely bastion of the savage, the wild.

Our heroes are slain by the hand of Content

Who says “Bury ’em quick, there’s money to spend”.

Our songs go unsounded in the halls of our fathers.

We prance to the drum of the slick-headed foreigner.

He smiles as we grind saying “Don’t you look well”.

But he’s only a salesman with trinkets to sell.

“Don’t tread on the Celt” say the men of the west.

“He knows his own worth and he’ll gut you in jest”.

But Paddy don’t bother with this or with that

‘Til it comes in his view or it…