We've mentioned this one a few times. It's a piss-take on the classic Irish songs about every nondescript little village or landscape feature. If at times it doesn't appear to scan - it's just that Brian also does an insider's piss-take on the art of decoration in song!

DRUMSNOT
(Brian O'Rourke)

Oh come all ye pleasant fellow peasants
    and listen to my song
It has twenty verses and what's far worse is,
    it's three times as bad as its long
Oh lend me your ears while I spill the beans
    about the place where I was got
For it's likely that you haven't much of a clue,
    about the place they call Drumsnot

Where my birthplace lies beneath Irish skies
    isn't easy to explain
Its not in the Pale or the Golden Vale,
    nor yet in the Central Plain
It affords no view of mountains blue
    and it sure is no beauty spot
And to date no county has claimed the bounty
    for admitting it owns Drumsnot

Oh, on Inishcarra and Gougane Barra,
    on Macroom and on Omagh Town
God poured out air of a fragrance rare
    that gained them high renown
On King Williamstown He showered sweetness down,
    on Lough Neagh and Glanlee and the lot
But those rare perfumes were all well consumed
    by the time that he reached Drumsnot

Ah but savage Nature, that lavish creature,
    Drumsnot did not neglect
For its stony fields with hoary weeds
    are gaudily bedecked
Them thistles, thorns and bouchalawns
    would be an ugly blot
Upon the face of any place –
    excepting dire Drumsnot

And all around wildlife abounds
    and leaps and creeps and crawls
And prowls and scowls and growls and howls,
    and fights and bites and bawls
And shrieks and yells and reeks and smells
    and kills and the devil knows what
And the ould triangle goes strangle-mangle,
    in the jungle around Drumsnot.

Now to sing of the birds, sure I have no words
    to express just how I feel
For the sweetest notes in their cheeky throats
    are the five pound notes that they steal
The sly magpie he rules the sky
    and ruins every garden and plot
And every songster is a fully-fledged gangster
    on the rampage around Drumsnot

Oh, we have no fleadh, we've no cine-MAH
    for to goggle at spectacles lewd
And Tim Lyons couldn't grouse about our eating-house
    that never heard tell of fast food
We've two broken down bridges infested by midges –
    and a gaming machine with no slot
And the meanest street between Kansas and Crete
    is the main street of Drumsnot.

Oh now you might guess that Drumsnot's a place
    where old customs they are held dear
And you'd be right for our faction-fights
    halve our numbers every year.
But our Gaelic tongue you'll as soon hear sung
    as the speech of the Hottentot
In fact we're distinguished for unspeakable English
    in the backwaters of Drumsnot.

Oh in Ireland's fight for her birthright
    we had no glorious share
For the Black and Tans with their trucks and guns
    never knew that we were there
Now they've gone away and 'tis sad to say,
    things haven't changed a jot
For in Leinster House neither Minister nor mouse,
    gives a sugar about Drumsnot.

Our hedge-master died in eighteen-o-five
    and since then we have had no school
And for all we see of C.I.E.
    we might as well be in Kabul
Ah but soon we might get th'oul electric light –
    and then again we might not
And the Christmas mail arrives without fail –
    around Easter in Drumsnot.

Oh a telephone kiosk or a Shi'ite mosque
    would be equal novelties there
So our smoky signals and dopey pigeons
    our urgent messages bear
And no motor car has yet got that far
    for the Spring Show could justly allot
For sheer scope and size a major prize
    to each pothole around Drumsnot.

We've no B & B's, no facilities
    for the stranger touring round
No Cead Mile Failte in your tracks will halt you
    if you tread on our tainted ground
If you're tracing your ancestors in parish registers,
    I'm afraid you won't here find a lot
Ah sure japers we barely can point out our parents
    in the shambles they call Drumsnot.

If you've a low opinion of our dominion,
    please don't broadcast your point of view
For although the locals are yobs and yokels,
    they have their fine feelings too
A bass-baritone weighing twenty-two stone
    dropped a hint that we weren't too hot
Well, he sang falsetto as he left our ghetto
    and staggered away from Drumsnot.

Oh 'twas in Drumsnot I was begot
    and there I squandered my boyhood days
And my youthful deeds they now recede
    in an alcoholic haze
When I grew a man, I drew up a plan
    and teamed up with a well-endowed mot
Her father owns the Rag and Bones –
    that's the only pub in Drumsnot.

By the effluent pump near the rubbish dump,
    I courted her right well
And we got engaged within seven days
    for she couldn't stand the smell
Then came the day in the month of May
    when we tied the fatal knot
And the wedding do was crubeens for two
    in the eating-house of Drumsnot

Now we live in a cabin with the thatch in ribbons
    and the rent we can barely pay
And all the roses around the door
    won't keep the wolf away
And all my dreams of pints so creamy,
    alas they have come to naught
For supplies of stout they did soon run out
    in the only pub in Drumsnot

Oh I wish I was far from the Shamrock Shore
    in some place where I might find work
And I tried of late for to emigrate –
    but I missed my lift to Cork
So to settle down in my native town
    has become my doleful lot
And to sink my roots and my hobnail boots
    in this dungheap they call Drumsnot

Now as you all know, some years ago,
    big blundering Uncle Sam
Tried to lift fifty-one of his native sons
    held hostage inside Iran
Ah but isn't it strange when 'twas all the rage,
    that the whole bloody world forgot
To break in and let loose us hundred and two poor hoors,
    marooned inside in Drumsnot.

Now, at last I must conclude, arrest
    and terminate this desperate ditty
And I hope you good people true
    by now feel for me some pity
And when at last my life is past
    and my bones have to moulder and rot
I pray God on high they won't have to lie
    in the cemetery of Drumsnot.

Its a while since I've heard it sung, so I'll need to rack my brains a bit more to identify the tune Brian uses.

Regards

p.s. In the notes to the album on which this appears, Brian gives helpful cultural notes on some of the more obscure references in the song. Mudcatters don't need that, do they?