Ballad of the Drunkard

He was a tactical tradesman in Dublin

The economy sank like a ship

And the marches of the unemployed

Drunken and annoyed began again

On the boat he want, he had to leave

How his extended family bereaved

Upon the wings of doves upon the wind

He believed, the wind splashed saltwater

Upon his face, the cloudy tempest arrived

A sordid sense of relief upon the way

Not knowing what brightness should appear

In the slight sun of the day, sleight of hand

If the wilderness of a storm comes this way.

Ballad of the drunkard, the suppressed mourning

The lost love of family, alive with blood in the vein

Still at the bar caught in the tears of the bereaved.