And everyone's O'Toole But in a bliss of ignorance They fashion him the fool For whoever saw an Irishman Vesti-ing a luminous emerald hat The size of a navvie's bucket Upon a wirey titian mat Or quaffing pints of soylent ale for the Irish wine they can't abide With phoney tears for the troubled years whilst faking Irish pride
No, tis not O'Toole who is the fool But every other class of twit Who imagines that to dress in green Bestows one charm and wit For when Patrick's feast is over And the clock past midnight ticks your false fair weather Fenians will disavow us '******* Micks'