Fairytale of New York ( & Kirsty MacColl) Man: Woman: It was Eve babe in the drunk tank You're a bum; you're a punk.... An old man said to me: "(I) won't see another one" Man: Bad Language Alert! And then they sang a song; 'The Rare Old Mountain (1)______*' You're an old slut on junk, lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed I turned my face away and dreamed about you Woman: Got on a lucky one - came in eighteen to one You scumbag, you (5)______, you cheap lousy I've got a feeling this year's for me and you. So Happy Christmas! Happy Christmas to your arse. I pray God it's our last. I love you baby. I can see a (2)______Duet: When all our dreams come true. And the boys from the NYPD (3)______were singing Galway Bay, Woman: and the bells were (4)______for Christmas Day. They've got cars big as bars, they've got rivers of gold Man: But the wind goes right through you - it's no place for the old I (6)______someone When you first took my hand on a cold Christmas Eve Woman: You promised me Broadway was waiting for me. Well so could anyone You were handsome... You took my dreams from me when I first found you Duet: Man: You were pretty Queen of New York City I kept them with me babe When the band finished playing they hollered out for more I packed them with my own. (I) can't make it all alone Sinatra was swinging; all the drunks they were singing I've (7)______my dreams around you We kissed on a corner then danced through the night. Duet: And the boys from the NYPD (3)______were singing Galway Bay**, And the boys from the NYPD (3)______were singing Galway Bay, and the bells were (4)______for Christmas Day. and the bells were (4)______for Christmas Day.

**If you ever go across the sea to Ireland, then maybe at the closing of your *Let grasses grow and waters flow in a free and easy way, day, But give me enough of the rare old stuff that's made near Galway Bay, You can sit and watch the moon rise over Claddagh, and see the sun go down Come gangers all from Donegal, Sligo and Leitrim too, on Galway Bay. And we'll give them the slip and we'll take a sip of the rare old Mountain Dew Just to hear again the ripple of the trout stream, the women in the meadow making hay, There's a neat little still at the foot of the hill where the smoke curls up to the Just to sit beside the turf fire in a cabin, and watch the barefoot gossoons as sky, they play. By a whiff of the smell you can plainly tell that there's poitin, boys, close by. For it fills the air with a perfume rare, and betwixt both me and you, For the breezes blowing o'er the sea's from Ireland, are perfumed by the As home we roll, we can drink a bowl, or a bucketful of Mountain Dew. heather as they blow, And the women in the uplands digging praties speak a language that the Now learned men as use the pen have writ the praises high strangers do not know. Of the rare poitin from Ireland green distilled from wheat and rye. Yet the strangers came and tried to teach us their ways, and they scorned us Away with yer pills, it'll cure all ills be ye Pagan, Christian or Jew, just for being what we are, So take off your coat and grease your throat with a bucketful of Mountain Dew. But they might as well go chasing after moon beams, or light a penny candle from a star.

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