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 you eye |
| To their hopes and betrayals and your only reply |
| Is Slainte 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, take me away, take me away |
From the dream on the barbed wire at Flanders and Bilston Glen |
| From a Clydeside that rusts from the tears of its broken men |
| From the realisation that 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 but the whistle still blows |
| Waiting on the whistle to blow |
| We stand here waiting on the whistle to blow |