I have composed the following
Irish drinking song.  It is up to you to provide
fiddles, whistles and bagpipes in your head:


"One-Eighth Irish"

The marnin’ after St. Paddy’s I awoke with me trousers and shirt on
Me throat was mighty dry and me noggin was a’hurtin’
When I rose I found me bed full of coins that me pockets did spill
So I took them down to the pub and bought a bottle of swill
Back at the trough, though it wasn’t my plan
What else could I do, for I’m only a man

Ohh, Canadians are jokers, Tibetians are monks
I’m one-eighth Irish and all a drunk
One-eighth Irish and all a drunk

I drank many a beer till I ran out of coins
Then on me sweet tab I drank whiskey and wine
When closin’ time came they dragged me out to the gutter
Where I spotted a fair lass that set me heart all a’flutter
I fought her mighty tall husband till me knuckles did bleed
And when constable O’Connor came round, I’d no choice but to plead
For me emerald-clad beauty who nairy had spoke
But O’Connor just raged, “You’ve been courtin’ a fir tree, had a bout with an oak”
Into his back saet silly O’Connor me did throw
And drove me straight home, straight home we did go

Well, the French are smelly, the Scottish are punks
I’m one-eighth Irish and all a drunk
One-eighth Irish and all a drunk

The next marnin’ in bed how me liver did ache
Like it had been kicked like a football and pierced through with a stake
I swore up and down that no mar I would tipple
I would forever abstain and forsake that sweet nipple
Then I rolled over in bed and found the reason I’d felt so ill for
Dug deep into me side was a carkscrew I did pilfer
Me throat barnin’ dry and op’ner in hand
What else could I do, for I’m only a man

Just… like… your… mother’s a whore and Fred Sanford sells junk
I’m one-eighth Irish and all a drunk
One-eighth Irish and all a drunk

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