My name’s not Jams O’Donnell and I’m not from Dublin town

But a bona fide genius though they sought to do me down

In lounge bars and public the jealous did me slight

Merely idle scribblers yet  lauded with high renown

 They cry you don’t deserve us but we stage behind your back

And many’s a hack stole my page when I was rather tight

But when life looks black as the hour of night and my atoms are pale and wan

I rage to hell with the civil service fill up the Cruiskeen Lawn

To hell with the civil service and editors so thran

To hell with the civil service wish I’d stayed in old Strabane

To hell with the civil service I’ll fill up the Cruiskeen Lawn

Come all you Irish heroes flogging calendars and grants

Beckett in a gloom of his own, twice wittier than Joyce

Paddy K in his stony fields not a rag to patch his pants

Willy B with his merry fairies Barney Shaw and his plummy voice

Not saying I match Seamy but from Derry I’m in the top one choice

For years in the Roads Department I hewed the seam so raw

If only I’d had my freedom oul Nobel would’ve been in awe

So when life looks black as the hour of night and my atoms are pale and wan

To hell with the civil service and committees so thick

To hell with the civil service and awards to make me sick

To hell with the civil service I’ll fill up the Cruiskeen Lawn

Now your Modern crowd with their murder slop

Enough to give me the pox

Three Thousand policemen just one sorry plot

 When will the readers cry for Pluck’s sake stop

Tell me this do you ever open a book at all 

Sure a welt with a spade your man is  dead quickly solved by Policeman Fox

So when life looks black as the hour of night and my atoms are pale and wan

To hell with the civil service and publicans so sour

To hell with the civil service and publishers so slack

To hell with the civil service I’ll fill up the Cruiskeen Lawn

You miss the point It’s the beginning of the sharpness

Insanitary black air accretions in the darkness

When too much walking fills you up with clay

Keep on marching you’ll meet death halfway

But I can’t  die because I have no name

I got the disorder in Mullingar just a bike had no car

Is it about a bicycle Sergeant asks in shame

It’s all a particle in De Selby’s encyclical of fame

So when life looks black as the hour of night and my atoms are pale and wan

To hell with the civil service and An Cat Mara

To hell with the civil service and An Staicín Eorna

To hell with the civil service I’ll fill up the Cruiskeen Lawn

Fill up the Cruiskeen Lawn To hell with the civil service I’ll fill up the Cruiskeen Lawn