On St. Patties Day went to Portland for the Luck of the Irish job at Slabtown. Here's the band: Lost Creek Gang.
You look like you'd find a hare Chorus: |
We make guilty of our disasters, Tis the luck of the Irish, the Irish I
say, |
Black tape and chewing gum Neal Cassady is reincarnated. |
Sharp rise in sexual
activity of Irish men And American women. Not all cirrhosis is caused by alcohol. Red-headed men carry sensations From the organ to the brain. Financial independence is achieved. Half of all the methane in the air Comes from termites. The fewer different drugs Used to control a complicated job stress test The less Bad taste there is to spend On anti-tobacco messages. They make worm's meat out of me. It is an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers. Oh. I am fortune's fool. An angry leprachaun beats me on my Irish red head. He was unstoppable. His stamina for field work is incredible. |
Ye don't want to be
tormentin' the Little green men. The leprechaumns dance and pipe And the little men sing While the men wanted gold The coleens planted potatoes. They hauled seaweed at low tide And covered the bedrock Until it was deep enough They could plant potatoes. They should have left the little people alone. They wouldn't have got the shakes No one could go outside for fear of the snakes. And the potatoes all withered Untended in their graves. Until St. Patrick came came with the saaves |
St. Patty's laying about CHORUS: |
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