Have you ever been to Castlebridge,
Have you ever drank dry water,
Saturday night Sunday morning,
Lit like a tabernacle dressed like an altar
Sewing things even though they're seperated,
Writing songs even though I fucking hate it,
And one more thing before the chorus,
One of these days I will pay for this
Packet of fags inside my pocket,
Out my door like a chain and sprocket,
Run like a treddle in a windmill,
That's where I got the inspiration for this song,
Vicar he signals to the people,
Here's the church now where's the steeple,
A buckled up knight on his horseback flying,
Crying at the sound of his animal dying.
Sex is a metaphor for religion,
Cows in this town fly with the pigeons,
Horse tracks crack in the sun by seven,
Eight o' clock, I'm in heaven,
Here's the gypsy with a shoe,
Whackin' a horse and a squire lad hittin' it
Watch them laugh and pick my feet,
Grab my coat walk down the street.
Packet of fags inside my pocket,
Out my door like a chain and sprocket,
Run like a treddle in a windmill,
(That's where he got the inspiration for his song),
Vicar he signals to the people,
Here's the church now where's the steeple,
A buckled up night on his horseback flying,
Crying at the sound of his animal dying.
Change the weather and pick a view,
Building boats from broken pews,
West from where their gardens grew,
Every grave my neighbour knew,
Lost another neighbour too,
The tinker's feet from labour grew,
Would you like to see his shoe?
No thank you.