Fianna

When the wind blows a groan, who cares if we miss our ship, dance like prisoners borne, broken clothes and spirits frayed, wayward sentiments seek to slip, bad breath everything they say, will consumptive Europe, want wet or dry lips, care how much we atone, give us drugs hear us pray, care to ask how's our grip, bilge abroad we sink today, cry by berths soothe our bones, stowaways who'll surely skip, manacles of wretched homes, If it's like this in Barcelone, what's the point of another trip, strangers grasp you from below, tell you get a grip.