Being Irish is a true godly gift,
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Barroom brawls to us a mere tift.
Yes, we talk funny and drink too often,
But even kilts canít our men soften.
We see fairies and wee little men,
You would to, drunk on a glen.
Weíre lucky bastards sober or prone,
Even without our blarney stone.
The Brits our spirits can not break,
Or our freedom much longer take.
So take up your pint with me laddie,
Itís good to be Irish, thank-you St. Paddy!