DOM'S MAD BANANA POETRY EXTRAVANZA

Neato , Neato, Alberito, there is no finito to the bus. Vin de Pays the ferryman, glockenspiel, glock 17, the opposite of cabbage is baggage. So boola boss , boola boss, we all give a toss the feathers whatever the weather the best for leather is something or other the perfect shine, let it shine hold your hands out to the moon, the sun, the stars and let it shine . Oh lay your hands on my own let your fingers touch my soul, every road leads you to your, from your, home.See how they shine oh ! how they shine, let the lights of home shine down on me. Albatross , Alcatraz, Albequeurque, all hands to the grist, to the mill, corn and husks and whaeat and barley spill, still low lie the fields of Athenry, it's so lonely round the fields my dad trod, with nineteen years beneath his belt from working in the woods to Banagher sawmill to working the fields all day a pound of butter his pay from farmers wise beyond their years how many tears did they shed for the men that bled, fled home in search for better days to earn their pays and sang songs in bars from london to timbuktu for love and loss of home and then fuckers, gangsters, twisters, like Bertie Ahern, and every developer and half arsed greedy sheister milked every cent that was going never paying the debt they were owing to those gone before, those yet to come, to home or distant shore and suffered in silence or drunken roar that they deserved more from this bastard life.