We’ve recently migrated to WordPress, as our old Drupal site was falling apart at the seams. Keep an eye out as we add more lyrics, more features, more corrections, and generally more betterness. Now we can actually edit the site.Full text of "The Golden treasury of Irish songs and lyrics"Tonight, the moon is playing tricks again I'm feeling seasick again. The whole world could just dissolve Into a glass of water. I've been good, 'cause I know you don't want me to. Do you really want me to be blue as you? It's her daylight that gets me through. We've been here before Last time you scratched at my door The moon was naked and cold I was like a two-year-old Who just wanted more. If you wear that velvet dress. Tonight, the moon's drawn its curtains It's a private show No-one else gonna know Sunlight, sunlight fills my room It's sharp and it's clear But nothing at all like the moon. The struggle for things not to say

I never listened to you anyway And I got my own hands to pray. But if you wear that velvet dress. Tonight the moon is a mirror-ball Light flickers from across the hall Who'll catch the star when it falls. Found on these albums performed at these shows Buenos Aires, , AR Sao Paulo, , BR Rio De Janeiro, , BR Mexico city, DF, MX San antonio, TX, US New Orleans, , US St. Louis, , US Tel Aviv, , IL Park Leeds, , GBl400 curtains Hof Koln, , DEready made curtains belconnen Los Angeles, CA, UScarnaby chocolate brown curtains E. Rutherford, NJ, USsahara rod pocket 120 inch curtain panel

Kansas city, MO, US Salt lake city, UT, US Las Vegas, NV, USIt's the farthest place I've ever been It's a new frontier for me And you balance things Like you wouldn't believe When you should just let things be Yes, you juggle things Cause you can't lose sight Of the wretched story-line It's the narrative that must go on Until the end of time And you're guilty of some self neglect And the mind unravels for days I've told you oncetupplur blind ikea Yes, a thousand timescurtains and blinds portarlington I'm better off this waywaterford ciara curtains Where's my queen of hearts I have cleaned and scrubbed her decks My suicide, my better days

There's nothing I regret I've placed the Gods In a zip-lok bag I've put them in a drawer They've refused my prayers For the umpteenth time So I'm evening up the score From a casting line From a factory in Mumbai Some manual labourer's bread and butter And a single-minded lie You've abandoned me for sure I'm dumping you, my childish things I'm evening up the score. Who'll do for him Child of the 50's With no common sense And no easy resting place Only lichen on beeches Oil on gun barrel And the hard taste of pennies Stands as proud as you please The lungs won't fill, the heart won't start Landlocked child of the seas And he alone is a man without qualities Combed his body for disorders But the disease lived on in far off quarters As a God everything was filled to excess As a man he settled for less Here lies the rabbit skinner God love the rabbit skinner

A life without purchase No story to tell And three little bitches fight where he fell. Foxes, foxes, give her a sign Enter the little girl and show her what's mine Play hard and fast with the rules if you please Here lies a man without qualities Comes the face of tomorrow Lights the fuse gives meaning to All that was previously hollow To a soundtrack track of sirens The express train to Heathrow First of the morning Is leaving the station Our reckless sun rises On the tip of the iceberg Hidden in plain sight Still alive and full of surprises A generation gone soft That can't take the edge off I've put away my childish things Abandoned my silence too For the future will contain Random acts of senseless violence The targets hit will be non-specific We'll roll the numbers, play with chance Stacked like a factory There's bound to be injuries No phone-ins, no courtesy

And the future will contain And it's not just the boredom It's the fear of disorder Stretched to its limits And the safety in numbers is just a contrivance Democracy is very merry Here we are then, here we are Notes from a suicide And he will never ever be The greatest living Englishman It's such a melancholy blue Or a grey of no significance A space to place his suitcase As he's bussed from A to B But it's such a melancholy blue The curtains round the bed are drawn Broadcast voices from the ward The humming of machines are heard But there are distances between Yes, there are distances between His aspirations visited him nightly And amounted to so little Too much self in his writing Now he will never ever be The engine shifts into second gear They're all aboard accounted for It's a journey he must make alone The black sheep boy is leaving home It's been rehearsed a thousand times or more

He's well prepared of that he's sure But still it's such a melancholy blue He's erased a page of history Much as he'd intended to He wouldn't speak or show you he was happy Though you'd meet him with your eyes There was a wall that always stood between you He'd shut himself outside And the love that he engendered Would never be enough For him to feel alive Not a fake nor a sham But dug in deep and fighting The world could not embrace a man With so much self in his writing Well he was never gonna be He had ideas above his station Minor virtues go unmentioned Little England you fit like a straightjacket Hemmed by the genius of others He said "to conquer the world is not to leave a trace Remove even the shadow of the memory of your face" A grey of no significance And when it appeared It was a flaming book of matches A hundred and twenty-five spheres On a parquet floor

She moves in a half life From her place on the stairs Or sat in the backseat Sometimes you're only a passenger In the time of your life And there's snow on the mattress Blown in from the doorway It would take pack mules and provisions To get out alive There were concerts and car crashes There were kids she'd attended For which she'd once made amends And there's ice on the windshield And the wipers are wasted And the metal is flying Between her and her friends She'd abandoned them there In the hills of Appalachia She threw off the sandbags To lighten the load As soon as the sun rose The keys were in the ignition Following the tyre tracks Of the truck sanding the road There had to be drugs Running through the girl's body And they too had a name And the adrenalin rush Had left her exhausted When under the blue sky Nothing need be explained

And there is no maker And there's comfort in that So you feel unafraid And the radio falls silent But for short bursts of static And she sleeps in a house That once too had a name She was no longer a user Don't think she realised we knew that Not one to make a fuss Why this and not something else She made such a hash of it You can’t help but notice A near absence of tenderness And who wants to live like that? And friends turned their backs on her She, no longer a user And she wanted to stay home With a box full of postcards And no place to send them Live like Emily Dickinson Without so much as a kiss Or the comfort of strangers But why this and not something else? There's a man down in the valley Who doesn't speak in his own tongue He bears a grudge against the English The tune to which his songs are sung Who is moving back in time It's a physical ascension