A hand held over a candle in angst-fuelled bravado A carbon trail scores a moist stretched palm Trapped in the indecision of another fine menu And you sit there and ask me to tell you the story so far This is the story so far
Shuffling your memories dealing your doodles in margins You scrawl out your poems across a beer-mat or two And when you declare the point of grave creation They turn round and ask you to tell them the story so far
This is the story so far
And you listen with a tear in your eye To their hopes and betrayals and your only reply Is Slàinte Mhath
Princes in exile raising the standard Drambuie Parading their anecdotes tired from old campaigns
Holding their own last orders commanding attention We sit here and listen to all of the story so far
This is the story so far
Take it away, take it away, take it away, take me away
From the dreams on the barbed wire at Flanders and Bilston Glen From a Clydesdale that rusts from the tears of it's broken men From the realisation that all we've been left behind Is to stand like our fathers before us in the firing line Waiting on the whistle to blow, we stand here waiting On the whistle to blow They promised us miracles, and the whistle still blows Broken promises, and the whistle still blows The whistle still blows
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