Alchemisland

Eamon de Valera conducting a secret war against church rule

He says these pedos we must root out

Taking him back to his IRA roots

Throwing grenades into rooms

Greeting priests with kabooms

Hiding in broom closets

Taking hold of priests hiding in priest holes

Painting with red the white robes

He’s in another class, clasping a holy lance

Looking to his men, who glance back

Lads, isn’t this class?

He takes one’s collar in his hand

For every child entombed at Tuam

Two blows that’d test a Nephilim’s fortitude

De Valera might be far from forty two but he’s handy with his 22

He remembers the hard times in 22, brutal war called plenty to

And on the grass, the foggy dew

He’s got a presidential pardon right here, right hook

Not as nimble as he was but can still shoot, mollywhopping goons

He takes down the official pants of Bishop Casey after mass

And lets a gang of abused children go crazy on that ass

Bishops and archbishops are slapped for malice, slackness

Lapsed standards, no bigger bastard bugbear than a lapsed Catholic

Dev does a high kick he hasn’t tried since 1916, ten men die

And the stained glass shatters, raining glass down on Aungier Street

He makes the black madonna black and blue with a confusion of fists

His blows a list of hits, now that’s what I call music 666

In Glasnevin he’ll be buried but there’s still ass to kick

In the switch stance every kick and hand lands, non stop attack

Lifts his toes to draw his opponent’s glance, chin action

First rid of the Brits then ditch these sanctimonious pricks

Anyone wearing a collar gets done like Collins

For their deeds so horrible, none die honourably

One priest’s spine he pulls out like a kudzu vine

Bunch of toxic eejits, consigned to the noxious weed lists

Tyranny’s privating, injurious grip wilts, is lifted, slipped

Dev slips the blows coming in, dips, gets his own counters in

One guy is mouthing so after he’s put out, gets the finger

Valera by name but Valyrian in temper, a blade emperor

How his devouring sabre of disabling emerald melted

What’s left of the priesthood, left the sept a ruin

He has freed the children from misuse, unchained all the womens’ wombs

Now it’s time to dig much deeper and find the rest of the hidden tombs

Keeping abreast of hidden news mice carry along the mews

Reports are that the papacy are confused, why Dev acts so no clue

You must be plutered or on Pluto pal you absolute lunatic loother 

Stringing them like a luthier, these Surströmming rotten divine instruments

Torture implements are on display that day, as a form of silent influence

They would not dare lie to Dev in his current primal condition

They proclaim what is demanded and arrest warrants are issued

Delivered into hands instantly disabused of all power, reaching for tissues

Realising that there’s consequences no matter what you do

Can’t change it, so just you do you and both us try getting through.