The Ryder Cup is on its way
  To Straffan in Kildare.
Mrs. Riley's eldest daughter
  Stefi dyed her hair,

A European blue,
  With the golden stars on beads.
A star for every state
  But she forgot about the Swedes.

Many other people
  Are preparing for the Cup.
The prices for a place to sleep
  Inevitably go up.

You could rent a bungalow
  Or a castle by a lake.
The little folk with crocks of gold
  Are likely to be fake.

The bill will seem unreal as well
  But don't be fooled by that.
It's as real as the heartfelt
  Irish welcome on the mat.

The taxi drivers plan to strike
  While the Cup is on.
You'll be stuck in a very deep bunker
  When the final bus is gone.

There'll be plenty of the black stuff
  When you exit from your flight,
But like its distant cousin oil
  The cost increases overnight.

Some people say it's not the way
  We should portray this land.
Through TV we'll acquaint
  Potential tourists with our brand.

But it's more accurate than leprecauns
  And colleens herding sheep.
We still have plenty potatoes
  But these days they don't come cheap.

But the act is just as accurate.
  It's who we've always been.
We've a very long tradition
  Of ensuring to be seen

As carefree cheerful Paddies
  When the tourists are around.
We're either very cunning
  Or unconscious on the ground.

When tourist money is nearby
  Some say they should be king,
That the museum up in Dublin
  Has their ancestor's royal bling.

They can blame the Brits to explain
  Why their royal seat is gone.
But they can't blame the European Union
  While the Ryder Cup is on.

I know someone who claimed she was
  Descended from Saint Patrick.
She fooled a lot of people
  And made money out of that trick.

She was finally exposed,
  But it wasn't held against her.
So grow a beard and buy a cloak
  And say you're king of Leinster.