urban celt

where the waters met on an island of clay
where the praties were grown in an old gaelic way
in a time of corruption, fuckers and claims
where each drudge was uncertain on the earth they prayed

communing, subsistance, not owing for life
you carved up your yeild and passed on the knife
still rentin' no Feilds', but the end clear in sight
they robbed all your farm and turned on the light

the old migration, it happened again
loose the grass fed long necks, woman and men
goes the best of the irish to new "little hell"
where the gaslight burns hard on the last urban celt

this island of damned that slaughtered your goat
held hands with the devil as you stepped on the boat
it sent flames in the distance on a poor squater's gloam
and the ghost of the land that haunted your home

you butchered the hogs for chops and the rind
you beat on the rails and straightened the line
for barons and bastards you were rationed in time
for the promise of little in a twice wrappin' line