Celebrate Quick Songtext
von Stoat

Oh the cursed air that seeps up from the scum in the canal
And it drifts down to the southside where the whiter collars dwell
And there the coppers bag it, book it, nick it and return
And they push it down the stairwell where the Store St. junkies burn

And the Dublin city council boys are digging up the street
"We′re looking for its soul," they say, and the Yank says "Hey that's neat"
"This hole has no more soul than my own," rejoins Beroo
As she slips into oblivion on sensimilia′s sweet perfume

The Yank is discommoded by the way we take him off
And he covers his disgruntlement with a dry, embarrassed cough
"Ah these Celts are fucking crazy, they will drink the Dodder dry
And sing and write it afterwards pretending everything's alright"

A bottle of champagne and a card that says "Right
Celebrate quick before things turn shite"

Ballybough is baking, it's congealing in the heat
With dehydrated dogshit the consistency of peat
The Iberians are laughing at some secret airbrushed joke
Beroo she bites back curses, she is dying for a smoke


And the wagtails on O′Connell St. are behind in the rent
But when the bailiff comes around they shit upon his head
He fumbles for his hankie, says "If it were up to me
But I don′t make the rules, lads"

Is this a dagger I see before me boys?
Skewering the sky where the trees lie down

Beroo is feeling homesick and she's thinking of her Da
She says "He will not last the winter
The pigeon-lunged, cabbage-ridden, pig-shaving, chicken-chasing, five-toothed, nine-fingered, half-arsed, broken-mouthed, arthritic, cross-dressing, cross-mullioned, gutless, chinless, feckless, spineless, legless
Oul fucker"

The Yank got caught in rain, and he is shaking like a dog
And he′s cursing our fair climate with its sunny rainy fog
And he's thinking of his mot who′s fat with someone else's child
Back home in Saratoga where the weather′s always mild

Now Beroo is horny, but she's fearful of disease
And she sizes up the American with his skin like cream cheese
And he's re-reading the letter that came from Yankland today
About the child that is not his

And the rain comes down
As the American slides into a new skin


Oh nothing′s really broken, or nothing you can see
"It′s just as well I'm dumb," he says, "and cannot really feel
But what′s this thing that empties out and shrivels up inside?
And whispers in the nighttime as the revellers go by."

Oh faith is being tempted and faith is feeling weak
As Beroo and the American fall together in the heat
Oh stinking is the city, but it never doesn't stink
At least it′s the smell of life, not death

Yeah