Well, I swore an oath upon that bog, as I sat in pain and rage,
To live on spuds and butter, till I died of great old age.
If I should win the lottery, revenge was on my mind,
I'll buy a place in India, and pay them back in kind.

I'll open an Armagh restaurant, and feed them spuds and sodas,
And lots of greasy sausages, till tighten up the buggers!
Chronic constipation will follow in my train,
For if they were reared on vindaloo, they'll never dung again!

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