Credits Conor Miley: Vocals, Organ
Additional Musicians: Diarmuid Comerford: Electric Guitar, Fergal Mullen: Drums, Mark Allidine: Bass
Lyrics and music by Conor Miley
Recorded and engineered by Christian Best in Monique Studios. Mixed by Christian Best. Mastered by Isaac Barter. Artwork by Emma James.
Well, first there came the father,
And with the father came the sin,
And from that beginning every sin’s been wrangling to get in.
Now they drain all sense of reason into an algorithmic stew,
With a belly-aching, ankle-shaking slight of ridicule.
But, the world keeps spinning,
As the words come stinging, slinging by,
And the boys keep singing,
Flinging joy up to the sky.
See, they keep seeing illusions,
It’s illusionary times,
Where each fantasy is bad poetry laid out in perfect rhyme.
It’s the edict’s endless virtue,
It’s the dictum’s grumbling verse that echoes ‘round the battle grounds,
On the new salvation’s birth.
But, the world keeps turning,
Their bellies churning for a fight,
Here’s the boys returning,
Hurling songs into the night.
So, I strip myself of glory,
Leave all splendour to the dead,
So, the rabble raff come to my gaff,
They’re calling for my head,
They’re eyeballing my doorbell,
They’re pillaging my shed!
It’s a real laugh,
It’s the modern way,
It’s a piaffe in a street melee,
It’s a rehash of an old ballet,
It’s a peepshow.
Now the winds of change are squealing,
The waves are pirouettes,
And a bitter breeze blows through the trees like a weeping clarinet.
So, some have huddled closely in amongst the mountain pine,
Where a fool gets branded, reprimanded and cast out to the lions.
But, the world’s rotating,
The moon’s awakening to see the boys debating,
Migrating from its apogee.
So, they howl out in its honour,
And dance in the lunar glow,
They’re rounding up the band,
Set foot and let the people know
It’s a real laugh,
It’s the modern way,
It’s a piaffe in a street melee,
It’s a rehash of an old ballet,
It’s a peepshow.
We say:
“One, two, hit it when they break through.”
So, I gather up the fallen at the mouth of the abyss,
The divils, dopes, the misanthropes,
Yeah, we’re going on the piss.
And so, we steer a course for pleasure down some haunted alleyway,
When the rasping groan of sub bass tones calls like Parthenope.
Now, the holy racket draws us into the bosom of a bar,
Where Azrael picks out a spell upon the neck of her guitar.
And when I raise my hand to order,
A man says “Bit of hush”,
So, I watch her spit some fucking shit ‘bout shaving off her bush.
The boys are getting kind of lairy,
Yeah, It’s getting out of hand,
My percussionist takes out his sticks,
He’s climbing up the stand!
And with an healthy dose of porter and a shot of dopamine,
He thumps the kit like Buddy Rich,
Crying “Fuck the IFP”.
Oh dear! That’s got the patrons swinging,
It’s got them scratching in the fog.
And the infantry comes barging in,
As some hopeless dialogue swings between the gods of virtue like a creaking pendulum.
And in the mezzanine plays out the scene of the rebel and his drum,
And in the mezzanine plays out a scene from the War of ’21.
It’s a real laugh,
It’s the modern way,
It’s a piaffe in a street melee,
It’s a rehash of an old ballet,
It’s a peepshow.
We say:
“One, two, hit it when they break through.”