The Session

Oh, they say that a song is considered to long

If it goes over 25 verses

In the midst of a session its listeners will lessen

Repeating the chorus to often will bore us

And drive us to states of distraction

It’s best that the lark keeps its air short and sharp

Or it’s liable to end up in traction

Chorus

The width and the breath and the depth of a session

The skill and the spill and the thrill of it all

The string and the red and the skin in contenting

A session, no messin, I’m still in its thrall

Oh, a fiddle or four when you walk in the door

Is a sight that can cause apprehension

‘cos fiddles you see are like rabbits they breed

The details I care not to mention

Five, six and now seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven

A feline cacophony wails

No ifs and no buts but this torture of guts

Should end up with a stretch in the jail

Chorus

Be it bodhrán or bones will the sticks and the stones

They are thrown from within and without sir

Don’t mention the spoons ‘cos they mangle the tunes

Oh, I’d toss that their loss is our win sir

Well you’ve got cause to gripe if a box or a pipe

They collide in a slide or a reel

With a banjo thrown in, there’s an unholy din

To the law well we surely should squeal

Mick Lynch ‘08