My land is bogged down in religious tradition.
We nod our heads in humble submission,
One foot in the door a hand in your pocket.
We export our problems for foreign solutions.

My land is naïve, too scared of the devil,
Holier than thou with eyes up to heaven,
And when nobody looks, we tear strips off our neighbour,
Have a good laugh at it all in the end.

Shrouded in mist, the outlook's appalling.
Pressure is rising and temperature's falling.
Sunny spells and scattered showers
And still it rains for hours and hours.

And as the floods rise, we'll drown our sorrows
Tossing them back like there is no tomorrow,
And in the end we'll sit or stand
And piss it back into the bogholes of Ireland.

My land is too fond of incurable scheming
The promises given are nothing but dreaming
We all love a rogue. We'll make him our leader,
But every three years it's right back to zero.

My land is still poor and underdeveloped.
We talk round our problems for hours on end,
And then we decide there's two sides to the story,
And have a good laugh at it all in the end.

(Erik Visser, A. Hensey)