1. |
Greet the Ground
07:03
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Light was bare across the bog as autumn air withdrew,
Yarn and figbits scattered in the wind as well.
The way in which the sparrows fell in to their nettle roosts,
The yews pursued but could not catch their eggs.
So the leaves they curled open about me like burning muscle, as I
Thought I caught a glimpse of shadows crawling over the fog,
Like a quiet cankerworm sliding underneath skin.
[the] following adage began to run around my mind -
Hell's roof is God's ground and God's ground is mine.
I cast the roach I inhaled back into a passing creek,
I locked into it's current, before I could find the key,
They'd me stretched, frenzied, bollocksed, spasming like spastic fish,
With your supper of milk and double whiskey and red, to roll my eyeballs 'round.
Lain long, birdsong,
Lain long, bird.
He's making for the sliding dunes, he melts with the new harvest,
Flocking flies approaching for his body's not yet compost.
Regurgitating heather so that only muck remains,
Sliding to the hills from whence he first came,
The heft of a bull smothered in larvae.
A lucid flight of morning rain uh rises and cries and pelts us,
Rolling winds about the stables from the cobbles come,
Endless ends of jarvey rope will twist like Indian weed,
Whipping only wind and not a horse's smalls again.
It certainly,
Is a sight to see,
A million hatchlings outed,
Dripping from the trees amidst the smell of sizzling crust,
There's not a yew in Aghadoe could catch the falling slop,
It comes between the twigs to greet the ground.
It comes between the twigs to greet the ground.
Now I know, I know what was that sound,
Made me twist my bones and turn around.
Lain long, birdsong
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2. |
Castlebridge
02:35
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Have you ever been to Castlebridge, Have you ever drank dry water,
Saturday night Sunday morning, Lit like a tabernacle dressed like an altar
Sewing things even though they're seperated, writing songs even though I fucking hate it,
And one more thing before the chorus, one of these days I will pay for this
Packet of fags inside my pocket, out my door like a chain and sprocket,
Run like a treddle in a windmill, that's where I got the inspiration for this song,
Vicar he signals to the people, here's the church now where's the steeple,
A buckled up knight on his horseback flying, crying at the sound of his animal dying.
Sex is a metaphor for religion, cows in this town fly with the pigeons,
Horse tracks crack at a turn by seven, eight o' clock, I'm in heaven,
Here's the gypsy with a shoe, whackin' a horse and a squire lad hittin' it
Watch them laugh and pick my feet, grab my coat walk down the street.
Packet of fags inside my pocket, out my door like a chain and sprocket,
Run like a treddle in a windmill, (That's where he got the inspiration for his song),
Vicar he signals to the people, here's the church now where's the steeple,
A buckled up night on his horseback flying, crying at the sound of his animal dying.
Change the weather and pick a view, Building boats from broken pews,
West from where their gardens grew, Every grave my neighbour knew,
Lost another neighbour too, the tinker's feet from labour grew, would you like to see his shoe?
No thank you.
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3. |
Witches Willow
06:29
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Keyless, I locked my hands away, away from their arms.
But they've returned upon wild heat, like greyhounds begging for scratchings of meat.
And the court is heaving like the wild roots, crawling down the witches willow.
I remember I heard her laugh one time in the trees,
When her roots pulled me through the ground, to join her at her table.
Covered in the darkest dirt I've ever seen on platters,
Below a ceiling which rained more down on our heads,
(and) I remembered when we used to play inside her castle, 40 feet above.
The graves are walking from the hills beneath recoiling clouds.
When the ghosts and the dead voices come out of the stones the kids get the fear of God.
They keep their candles burning, I keep mine burning too, below anyone's gaze.
Hear the pork grind off the moss, feel the danger but embrace the fear,
Lick the flint which splits the meat, like the way it always was will be.
This is what we've waited for, my friends, this is why we tuned our virginals.
This is why we lay in the mountains, is it not?
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4. |
Hungover at Mass
02:49
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I cannot face communion, I have to go away,
The food in my intestine, does not want to stay.
Maybe it was the mulled wine, gone off since the fourth,
I have to get up and leave, shit this is awkward.
Hungover at mass.
Hungover on a Sunday.
Hungover at mass.
I made it through the river, of old people's knees,
Now half the church is looking, directly at me,
Standing by the altar, I think they think I know,
That I want to do a reading, but I just want to go.
Hungover at mass.
My body's in a bad way.
Hungover at mass.
I can feel the Devil in me.
O a fear has gripped me, I feel everyone's eyes,
Even the baby Jesus statue comes alive,
I'm nearly fucking sprinting, how long's this fucking church.
Does God want me embarrassed? Does Jesus have me cursed?
All the lads from last night will think I can't hold beer.
I'd rather be seen legless, than seen throwing up here.
Hungover at mass.
Trying to get the head straight.
Hungover at mass.
Maybe I drank the devil, Maybe the devil got in me
Maybe I drank the devil, Maybe the devil got in me
Maybe the devil got in me
Last Night.
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5. |
You Make a Fine Picture
05:14
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Total inebriation, exhaust and moans whisper up the field,
A word I heard from the road's bend, of a body and horse spread across the tracks
The news had passed this way in the night, and yes there was porter in my pint,
The tale I told eluded me, so I carried on.
"Really, you make a fine picture with your talk,
For me, throw down your voice and go for a walk.
Hold fast my friend. We have an untied loose end. You talk to me in cloak and dagger."
Tipsy night in April, I asked you then would you be my wife,
The echoe of your no will chase me to the clouds or to the clod,
Thank God for the wheels below me, to take me from this place at speed,
The road eluded me, so I carried on.
"Really, you make a fine picture with your talk,
For me, throw down your voice and go for a walk.
Hold fast my friend. We have some untied loose ends.
You talk to me, forever saying nothing."
A dram in a man's hand from the main land, is not beyond my understanding,
Forward in the dark, pulled over at a humpback, what 's that stupid tube,
The difference between me and you, come down here 'til we fix your tube I'll
Prove we are the exact same, in two completely different places,
Stupid accent stupid life, the same ten fingers and two faces.
"Really, you make a fine picture with your talk,
For me, throw down your voice and go for a walk.
Hold fast my friend. We have some untied loose ends.
You talk to me in cloak and dagger."
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Junior Brother County Kerry, Ireland
Singer from Co. Kerry, Ireland with an acoustic guitar and tambourine playing alternative Irish folk.
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