It was called the job
Till it ran beat down
Cramming beats notes
Inside the wide open hide
Patting on the hind
Beaten babes blinds
Non other but the cat
Creep, yeah
Just would that I
A peasent boy
Had not of retires first
Nor chancellors south
Bought in mange
Critical howling sting
Yet only after mourning sons laughter
Will Irish ring the corners again
And no where will child cry
Without good neighbor
By his side
Four queens of decree
Remember delicate perjury