Jimmy Rafferty

  Oh, list to the lay of a poor Irish boozer,
And scorn not the groans from his poor withered throat,
For I'm dryer than an oul camel's arse in a sandstorm,
And it's really beginning to get on my goat!

The tale I've to tell you is sad and depressing,
It would wring a wee tear from the hardest of stone,
For I can't get a drink in my own native city,
And I'm sure you'll agree, through no fault of my own.

One evening I dandered up town, to my 'local',
For a mouthful or two of the nectar that cheers,
And soon I fell in with the best bunch of fellas
You ever could wish for to share a few beers.

Now we talked and we blathered on subjects wide-ranging,
But the crack turned to heroes of the great Gaelic game,
McGeeney and Marsden, and others were mentioned,
All known far and wide as men of great fame.

But some bloke from Tyrone chimed in with a mention,
Of a fella called 'Caravan', or something of the kind,
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