| I’m from the town drenched in football and rain
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| That fathered the terrible twins
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| Tom Murphy the footballer, playright and singer
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| He left to spread his wide wings
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| Where the dance-halls once buzzing with shifts and refusals
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| Stand silent, dejected and cold
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| Where they played basketball for a longer duration
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| Than anywhere else in the world
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| We’re all the way from Tuam
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| All the way from Tuam
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| With a rock-solid spirit
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| That’ll never be broken
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| There’s songs to be sung
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| And there’s words to be spoken
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| From the town that was built
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| Where the cart-wheel was broken
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| We’re all the way from Tuam
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| All the way from Tuam
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| Where we’d spend all our weekends to help pass the winter
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| Playing soccer above in Parkmore
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| Or we’d travel away for a match into Galway
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| In the swamp or out in Renmore
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| They’d be calling us smokies, the lads from the city
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| But I did’nt care what they called me
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| Just plank it in lively across for the noodle, sham
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| His jills with the KD’s a gomey
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| We’re all the way from Tuam
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| All the way from Tuam
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| With a rock-solid spirit
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| That’ll never be broken
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| There’s songs to be sung
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| And there’s words to be spoken
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| I still remember
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| The white star being open
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| We’re all the way from Tuam
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| All the way from Tuam
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| Here in the town where the high king once ruled
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| With the wisdom of ages gone by
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| The grey stone cathedral spires are dwarfed
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| By a tall metal tower in the sky
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| Where the travellers are settling, the settled gone travelling
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| The pubs full of gossip and rumour
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| You’ll never better the people of Tuam
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| For their power, passion, packets and humour
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| We’re all the way from Tuam
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| All the way from Tuam
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| With a rock-solid spirit
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| That’ll never be broken
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| There’s songs to be sung
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| And there’s words to be spoken
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| From the town that was built
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| Where the cart-wheel was broken
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| No matter where you’re from
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| Everyone’s local
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| And we’re all the way from Tuam
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| All the way from Tuam
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| Copyright: Moran/Carton |