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there's something about stillborn static and low tones like city parks at night when the stars don't want to come out and play -- and all i've got are 3 am memories flashing by at the diner on highway 80; so, i guess i'll toast to the art of breaking

With a thunderous whack and an ear-splitting clap And shouting from the sliotar’s slap Grit your teeth and chase down your opponent But careful, a bone’s sure to snap Get the ball in your hand, but you can’t pick it up! You’ll be booed right out of the club Can’t manage this? Then get off to the side And let in your brogue-armored sub Run down the pitch with a whirl and a twirl With the sliotar on the end of your hurl What, I can only take twelve steps?! Ha, bet you now want to skirl But if you manage to hit the sliotar long Toward the goal or the upright’s prongs You’ll be met with a free pint And joined in your county’s old songs