When St. Kevin was praying, an egg fell into his hands,
And he knew that if he flinched, it’d be dashed across the
sand,
So he stayed in that position for twenty days and nights,
Until the little egg broken open, and the little bird took
flight.
Some folks pray to fill their own cup,
Asking for a favour, wishing for some luck.
Some folks pray to fill their own cup,
But the best ones pray to keep someone else up.
St. Nick knew a lady, beautiful and sweet,
Who couldn’t feed her kids and was forced to work the
streets,
So Nick cleaned out his savings, took a stroll down to her
place,
Dropped the money down her chimney, and left without a
trace.
St. Kathy loved her Lord so much that, when she was killed,
From the hole where her head once was she bled a stream of
milk.
And Uncumber loved her Lord too, but her fiancé she feared,
So, to turn him off, she prayed to God, and proudly grew a
beard.
And Dunstan took his pliers and he pinched the devil’s
nose,
And flung him down to Hell, where the ground promptly
froze.
And Ronnie wiped the Lord’s tears; he left an imprint of
his face,
Now she hangs it in her living room, above the fireplace.
Something’s off in this city, something’s dying in this
town.
There’s too many dark faces in these tunnels underground.
And we’re losing our best people, a dozen every day,
And all our days are numbered if the saints go on their
way.