the eulogists are sighing
as i turn the music up
tell the gideons they should've
put a picture on the front
i've got my headshots in the glovebox
in case they're casting any truents
and a reflection like a mugshot
that didn't mean to do it
from a layby up on three rock
the shrunken town looks shriveled up
i know i'm leaving with a bigger ghost
and a little less for it to haunt
thinking about the places
they twinned up all these towns with
till i'm somewhere out in erris
where they just bury them when they're finished
you're a pain in the heart
you're a pain in the head
you've the sole hanging off my show
the trees grow to meet me
the wind blows me back
i could get a greener grass for half the cash
in the ballymahon they've got in france
no one would ever say no if i asked them
i'd be playing some bigshot in the ballymoe in nebraska
but the skin doesn't seem to mind much what it's growing around
i'll drive out to blacksod and just go home
they'll see my name on the '06 census
or hacked in the back of a pub toilet door
i think of cromwell with his army and st bridget and her cloak
the ground doesn't care it covers everything up
i sat on a beach you could see inis gluaire
still there in the sweat from the world keeping going
everything buried except the story
i know you'll be waiting and you know i'll be home
they'll see my name on the '06 census
or hacked on the back of a pub toilet door
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