Papal bulls, we've got them, decrees and fatwas
Fuck the Pope and all you Prods
Fuck off home and don't be bothering God

Dover Cliffs to Fort William, it's Gombeen Cha-Cha
Pigs the plushest parlours do despoil
Your Navy spurned my boyhood aspirations
So I'm back to break your nerve for validation

Going, I'm going
Where rocks are bare and fog surrounds me
Going, I'm going
Where power is destroyed

Cromwell's been dug up again, for sporting insult
The Saracens approach the coast, An Ti­arna Mor _(Gaeilge: "the Overlord")_ offers them ports
Junkyard pomp in Athlone, he preens and postures
Swabian bodyguards and wine
Zeppelins fill the sky at dawn in Fishguard
Teutons call the shots in the imperial backyard

Going, I'm going
A mansion grand with caverns under
Going, I'm going
To bury all I know

Yeats and Wilde and Michael Collins
Were faces in your capital
Edmund Burke, Charles Stewart Parnell
Faces in the capital

They all learned to talk right
And wield the surrender pen
But time's not a line, its course pre-defined
You won't see such weaklings again

In Lansdowne Vale, I was born poor and aimless
I learned to rob my betters blind
Now I'm the Henry Ireton of the Saxon mind

Have you met my anorexic chefs, my senile historians,
my painters and singers, as they daub and croak?
They dodder as their tapestry unravels
As shards of empire mass over the Channel

Going, I'm going
To a cliff-top scorning dissolution
Going, I'm going
The papal pagan way
The papal pagan way


Lyrics submitted by BrutalBart, edited by wtcosgrave

The Papal Pagan song meanings
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