It's the centenary of the proclamation – we shall lift our glasses,
not to Guinness or to Arthur Diageo's dream of the Emerald Isle,
distracted, appeased, quelled an' ****** on the tainted black stuff,  
designed to keep us inferior, pig-carriers - at arms with ourselves,
but of Irish craft, guile an' the rising of Irish spirits, the creation,
of a dream long suffered for, long wished for, celebrated in private
for shame of the austere reflection of a country and its people lost,
We shall lift our glasses to the beginning of todays sour ending,
A'sure twas' a good Easter that year.

Hand shakes warm, clean an' orchestrated with restrained sincerity,
A Kingdom reborn, a Republic divided by the maths of peace-makers,
The brave sacrificed for the sneering survival of these eels of politics,
Landowners who owned more than just land - the people's will,
Testament to this abortion of values, morals, history and desire,
is the wholesale pawning of the Irish coast – to support our captors,
the constant glance over our shoulders with panic in our quiet eyes,
as the money men, smug with irresponsibility laugh safely inside,
A'sure twas' a good Take that year.