Boat on dry land.

Recession, unemployment, cant listen to the news,
Daydreaming is the sport to fight away the blues.
Looking down on Ireland and wondering does it float,
From an elevated angle it looks just like a boat.
Attach some outboard motors, nothing would be finer,
We could sail the fucker south like a massive cruise liner.
And fuck you Europe, not meaning to sound mean,
Our next destination is the sunny Caribbean,
Far away from problems and shit meant to break ya,
Waking up moored besides the Rastas in Jamaica.
Flip-flops, sunglasses, everybody sipping Gin and Tonic,
As once subsidised farmers learn to cultivate the chronic.

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