They don’t come from Cork
This song came about as I observed the behavior of
Non-Corkonians and how they reacted to the nuances of Cork City live. Jay
walking for examples, is the sacred right (if not a duty) for every Corkman and
Woman. The chorus expresses our notorious self importance but also, I hope, our
self deprivation and love of “the slag”.
Wassies: Wasps
Norries: Those from the Northside.
Sorries: those from the Southside.
Marshian: those from central island. The Marsh as it is
known.
Drisheen: A Blood Sausage.
Tripe: The lining of a Cow’s stomach.
Crubeens: Pig Trotters.
Skirts: A cheap Pork Cut.
Corned Beef: Beef pickled in Brine.
Mick Lynch 2009
Mick Lynch 2009
Lyrics:
They don’t come from Cork
They don’t come from
Cork
‘cos they can’t cross the road
They wait at the lights
And they do what they’re told
In the middle of the night
With no cars to be seen
They wait for the red man
To change to the green
On Fridays at tea-time
As gridlock locks in
They hover on corners
Like wassies round bins
They don’t understand
That with poise and with grace
A Corkman can cross
Any time any place
We’re Norries, We’re
Sorries, We’re Marshians
We hail from the banks
of the Lee
We’re fond of revolt
and rebellion
And we’ll fight for
our right to be free
We’re know for our wit
and our wisdom
And our skill with a
hurl and a ball
No inferiority complex
When you come from the
real capital
The don’t come from Cork
‘cos they queue for the bus
They wait in a line
And they don’t make a fuss
When the buggers form Christians and Pres form a ruck
And push up to the front
‘cos they don’t give a f***
They give up their seats
To the crippled and old
And move to the back
Without even being told
But manners don’t matter
At the end of the day
If you’re left in the lurch
As the bus pulls away.
We’re Norries, We’re
Sorries, We’re Marshians
We hail from the banks
of the Lee
We’re fond of revolt
and rebellion
And we’ll fight for
our right to be free
We’re know for our wit
and our wisdom
And our skill with a
hurl and a ball
No in feer e ality complex
When you come from the
real capital
They don’t come from Cork
‘cost they don’t like Drisheen
They gripe at our Tripe
Think Pig’s Head is Obscene
When offal is offered
Their faces turn green
And they run half a mile
When you mention crubeens
Our tongue they won’t take to
Our skirts they won’t wear
And they look for the corn
In the corned beef I swear
But they’re fond of our sausage
They think it’s the best
So we’ll stuff them with bangers
And keep all the rest.
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