| There’s a man on the run
|
| And he’s never been caught
|
| He moves at the speed
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| Of the power of thought
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| And he carries the news
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| In a gleam of his eye
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| That what you’ve been told
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| Is a kind of a lie
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| His enemies number fallen priests
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| Men of power and the crooked police
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| Cynics from the school of hard knocks
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| And a motley crowd of mis-matched other old crocks
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| Who’re never ever gonna catch
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| The Connemara Fox
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| They chased him in Cong
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| They missed him in Maam
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| He was already gone
|
| Never giving a damn
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| Wanted dead or alive
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| Up the back of of Dog’s Bay
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| But by the time they arrived
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| He was leagues away
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| In an oyster bar playing dominoes
|
| And the only clues he left his foes
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| Were a fistful of dust, a change of the locks
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| The words of a Kris Kristofferson song, a pair of old socks
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| And graffiti saying so long, suckers
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| Love, the Connemara Fox
|
| He was in Bunnahown
|
| On the day of the fair
|
| When ship-like clouds
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| Sailed the summer air
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| And a bodhran thumped
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| And a saxophone played
|
| As the people jumped
|
| And danced at the side of the bay
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| They say he had long elegant fingers
|
| And when he was gone magic lingered
|
| A bolt of love that stopped the clocks
|
| From the village lane where the washing hung to the city blocks
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| The name on every tongue
|
| Was the Connemara Fox
|
| He left a diktat
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| On the priest’s window sill
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| It said «Crough Paaaatrick, Sonny
|
| Is the paganest hill»
|
| In the whole lump of Ireland
|
| It shone with green light
|
| That’s why they buried its power
|
| Under Christian rites
|
| And that bogus name to which it never belonged
|
| That you can’t even rhyme in a spell or a song
|
| You’re trying to put life back into the box"
|
| And the priest ran out with a yell in the night in his cap and frocks
|
| He never even caught sight
|
| Of the Connemara Fox
|
| He’ll be where there is music
|
| He’ll be where there is crack
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| He’ll be howling the blues
|
| In the yard out back
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| He’ll be down in the Claddagh
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| Playin' pitch and toss
|
| He says guilt’s an imposter, baby
|
| You been double-crossed
|
| And just when you think you’ve got him pegged
|
| All you’ll see are the backs of his legs
|
| A shadow passing way over the rocks
|
| A wisp of hair, a ghostly snatch of the sound of a box
|
| No one’s ever gonna catch
|
| The Connemara Fox
|
| The Connemara Fox
|
| The Connemara Fox
|
| The Connemara Fox
|
| The Connemara Fox |