To the workhouse where tears were not shed
Long, before the dawn of day, which wasn’t his to take
Before long, the government man would come - poke, ****, pry, and
Moved again with the burning thatch still echoing its ring
The only truth, what had been - not what was or would be,
To come - the blistering of feet in hot summer sun

Present day and although the oppression has,
In a way, gone away,
There’s a red hand, clasped in a vice grip,
The land of one percent is for the few and don't you be having the lip to lament,
Even with enforced eviction -
‘why don’t you have the rent?’
History repeats itself, this time at the hand of someone like you
See, the bourgeois, petit, never ceased to be
A tragedy
From inequality born -
Ag Coinneáil Daoine Slán