Father O'Brien

Riddle-me riddle-me rote-tote-tote
A little wee man in a red red coat
Blood on his hands and a stone in his throat
If you tell me this riddle I'll give you a groat.

From the sign on the door NO HAWKERS HERE
Where The Devil sits weeping into his beer
To the Triple Tun townhouses' muted cheer
The ale has all turned sour

Flower of England meet my need
I've been up all night with a cause to plead
I need a warrior born to bruise and bleed
For Arthur of the bower

When The Devil said son let's make a deal
If your brain's of straw and your nerves of steel
You can turn the wrath of Ezekiels wheel
If you'll give to me your soul

I said sorry boss no martyr I
As the lord is my witness I'm his bride
No bastard son to be crucified
So I can't accept your role

But what do you think they were saying
When they spoke to The Lord that night
They tugged on the bellropes with all their might
As if they thought He'd hear
But He just sat on His cloud in the sky
Trying to make up His mind
Throwing the dice from left to right
As He grinned from ear to ear

Now Father O'Brien is making a stand
While The Devil comes roaring up the land
A can and an hourglass in His hand
And the clock strikes five past three

The ecologists fell to fire and sword
When they lay down in protest before The Lord
The JOB DONE sticker on the vatican door
Was plain for all to see

Now the fascists hang from the telegraph poles
The anarchists march on burning coals
It's afternoon tea and sausage rolls
For The Devil The Lord and me

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Chorus B A E A D A E A D E A