Should Isr’fel break the news of a peril soon
What would happen to you Cocks leading the walk
Would you hence keep chanting “au claire de la lune”
Or would you keep silent and afraid to talk?
Better stop hugging your ill’sions of Power
And remember those dreadful tyrants of might
Who oft’n fanned the flame and burned their own tower
Hence be wise and halt measuring your short height
Nip in the bud your disguised quarr’ls and be friends
The world’s waiting for your nuclear accord
Make Irish and spit on your palm and shake hands
To endorse your word and attain your reward
Otherwise the lips of time for ever ‘ll speak
About the murd’r of your common sense in jail
Be careful and stop your game to hide and seek
To avoid being the cocks who crow and fail