Summer rain, take me on over the edge, I shall forever pledge to devotedly depend upon your mysteriously, seriously upside-down weather forecasted every single thing
This Is Supposedly So Dressed Up Ireland To Deliciously Stress Many A Rain-Bashed Permit Ourselves Only Ever These Rudimentarily, contrarily unabashed, un-asked for endeavours of snide-ridden ours
Where were you all when these quaking within size-ten boots to whimsically suit foreign-isle soldiers proposed to suppose to flee the hell on out of everywhere
We are fucking prepared to snare it every next eye-aching bit
Juxtasupposed to be the best of both our IRA-worn worlds – those Gerryatrick Adams people know of nothing truly, rule a most bullet-torn roost til falling to fail, never ever failing to fall yet again
This Penny Shall Have To
D
R
O
P… cop the fuck on unlearned ones
There’s a time to take the past and leave the worst parts behind, stop fucking diluting the truth to death
We hold the most of aforementioned unruled unequally honesty-filled worlds
Inevitably, you will learn to historically implement and to finally see
Get ready to be utmost embarrassed by family-ties inadequacy
Absurd this bloody Sunday atrocity swarmed right around We
See, it’s all left upto shit-drunk, over-exaggerated allegiance to foot-in-the-past paralysis dialogue
Don you timber-socked togs and fuck the way off, you crazy Sinn Fein-wearing failures at snail-paced, bloody-proofed will
We sneeze again and you fall all of the more… set yourself up for manic upheaval for another such snore-induced to which way is actually up hundred cumbersomely quick years, please
Placidly inept round-and-round-in-circles pretenders of no part of ours – the divide was made to create by your unchosen, family-orientated few fickle cunts indeed
Take a tale and turn it to absolute talk – folklore stored wrongfully within they smear-faced wannabe winners of maybe one day eventually ours?
Who the heck wants to know anymore
You do talk – we do abhor, when fiction breathes meaning
So you know, you are ultimately loathed by these far more fair imaginatively suggestive masses – even my most friendly few
No more
Belt-buckle-to-shirt-stitched preachers to very nearly almost nobody
BOOM BOOM, feel it in the womb if needs be, watch you never-mothers crumble atop bullet-driven feet
Retreat and, please, flick the fucking needle this archaic vinyl is nauseating to the cruxified bone of our otherwise brilliant beings

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