R.o.i.

The innocent have shamrocks in his eyes,
His blood is heritage, this Irish boy cannot hide.
I'd beach to the rhythm of the strumming, of the valley bad's Joe.
His blood was three colours: green, white and gold.

At night these cobbled streets I roam.
This sovereign state is home.

I know I'll be

At night these cobbled streets I roam.
This sovereign state is home.

At night these cobbled streets I roam.
At night these cobbled streets I roam.
This sovereign state is home.
This sovereign state is home.

At night these cobbled streets I roam.
At night these cobbled streets I roam.
This sovereign state is home.
This sovereign state is home.

At night these cobbled streets I roam.
At night these cobbled streets I roam.
This sovereign state is home.
This sovereign state is home.

At night these cobbled streets I roam.
At night these cobbled streets I roam.
This sovereign state is home.
This sovereign state is home.

At night these cobbled streets I roam.
At night these cobbled streets I roam.
This sovereign state is home.