Our new next-door neighbours have asked us to call.
I'd rather not visit or meet them at all.
They are what's wrong with this country today.
They've painted the green, white and gold a light grey.

They're so into sighing. They're show into boating.
The appearance of others they're constantly noting.
They're buying a speedboat, and one day a yacht.
Intelligent, thoughtful and soulful they're not.

They're big into clothes and styles for their hair.
I doubt if there's much more than hair spary up there.
They're slaves to style. To fashion they fall.
And that's why they've both got no style at all.

We have the clothes and the hair styles and shoes.
Our look's up-to-date when we're going to do's.
But our minds hold more than just cash, birds and bees.
For us this is style. For them a disease.

  When we own our necks and heads
    We also own our hair.
  You'll never fully own something
    That's mostly made of air.

They live in a newly-built home they call place.
We have the hair and the eyes and the face.
We've always had eyes. We still have our soul.
Looking more youthful is their long-term goal.

They sold their souls to get where they are,
To buy the pool and the bright red sports car,
The holiday home and the new four-by-four,
The peasant-made carpets and rugs on the floor.

Our four-by-four is efficient in fuel.
It's more than a 'look at how rich I am' tool.
We buy potatoes, organic food too.
And yes, so do they, but only coz we do.

We are Eire, but they just don't care.
We paid ten grand for a harp just last year.
Old Ireland is dying in this new-found wealth,
In obsessions with money and fashion and health.

We know who we are, and where we are going.
Where they came from they've no way of knowing.
The old days are dying in our modern con.
But we've got it all coz we know what is gone.