Poor old Ireland, poor old universe,
wonder who comes off the worse.
Poor old people mistreating misbelieving,
I think you've been cast by a curse.
But I don't want you to die, I can see all the lies
there's nothing there that's new.
But there's still no need to make blind children bleed,
even if what you say is true.
And meanwhile in the aisles of the churches with style,
they're singing their songs to the Lord.
And the preacher's carping that for failure on earth,
heaven will be your reward.
Poor old Ireland tortured by past and
tarnished by future's curse
Poor old Ireland, poor old planet,
poor old universe.
Oh Ireland your people mean more than the idols
you seek to set upon earth
and the day that you see that's the day, that all of your
sadness and sickness will die.
For the enemy you seek to destroy is not the
one who's causing the pain
he's disguised himself well with his book and his bell but
evil is still his name.
Poor old Ireland tortured by past and
tarnished by future's curse
Poor old Ireland, poor old universe
wonder who comes off the worse.
