The graveyard is open all night And it's lovely when people drop by. There is no danger, so don't be a stranger; We're bound to be in any time Here's where the craic's to be found. There's whiskey and Guinness, enough to go round. If it's family or friends that you seek, In the graveyard is where you'll eventually meet. MoCushla, you'd make a lovely corpse, So pass us a spade and we'll vacate a plot MoCushla, you'd make a lovely corpse, So kick off your shoes and join in the cemetery waltz Come, gather round the tombstones We'll tell you stories about our old bones. Think that you've heard them all, there's always one more; There's men dying round here who've never died before Like old Owen who expired where he sat. When they brought out the coffin he wouldn't lie flat, So they bound him down with a rope round his chest, Till the wake, when he popped up and startled the guests And Aunt Phila had brothers and sisters galore And she thought in her bones that she'd outlive them all, When she heard her poor brother was ill She bought a funeral coat; now she's wearing it still MoCushla, you'll make a lovely corpse, So pass us a spade and we'll vacate a plot MoCushla, you'll make a lovely corpse, So kick off your shoes and join in the cemetery waltz And if when she's within the cemetery walls Your daughter hears music she didn't before There is no need to fret, we won't let her catch cold: We'll tuck her in the soil with the stories we've told And we'll steal her a stone, there's no need to behave When the marble's piled high on the travellers' graves You can visit her anytime, no cause for tears. Drop her off at the gates and she'll walk home from here MoCushla, you make a lovely corpse, So pass us a spade and we'll vacate a plot MoCushla, you make a lovely corpse, Kick off your shoes and join in the cemetery waltz

I, I'm 2 years old again And I won't do anything That I don't want to I fell down and hurt myself So i'm screaming at everything Cause I just want attention But please, please leave me on my own Cause there's nothing that you can do To make me feel better    I know it's unacceptable    That screaming and kicking    And scratching and biting    And sulking won't get anything done My face is falling apart again My skin's chapped and eyes swelling And they have been for months And I, I'm so fed up with it Doctor doesn't know what it is And nothing i do seems to help    So I'm plying myself with all     Sorts of cream and pills    Trying to sleep, maybe     That's where the trouble lies    Cause stress isn't good for me    I know, but honestly    I don't think that I can    Do much about that right now I haven't seen my best friend in weeks Is that what you are to me? Are you too busy to talk? And how, how would you know that I'm  So fucking annoyed at you For not telling me things I needed to know And it kind of hurts That you went and forgot that we'd  Set a date for a movie And Doctor Who    I wish I could beat you up    Wish I could make you see    Wish that you'd call me and    Wish that you'd talk to me    Wish that you'd get it    But of course you don't get it    Cause you're just a boy     And quite frankly what do boys know? But I, I'm 26 years old And I'm moping about everything That I can't control

Dear Mr Bunce and Mr Lee, I'm sorry to inform you that I'm pulling out, I'm packing in; I will not be of service for a while. And I admit that it's been fun despite the lack of time and sleep. We pulled it off and made ends meet, but I feel it's time to leave because the boss and I do not see eye to eye. So I'll take a sebattical a month of sunday's long and I will face up to my qualms and I will put them in a song that I will sing to you on my return to tell what I've been doing with my time, and I'll invent so many clever ways to say I'm feeling fine. I've got some childhood traumas to address and it's not helping that at every turn I'm faced with your concept of wrong and right. I'm not saying that I won't come round to your way of thinking, but I'm making my escape before I start to steal the mic clips just to spite your mistaking me for any other than an angry, doubting, messed up prima donna. In this existential crisis of faith it's not me, it's you who won't exist. So forgive me if I deconstruct the syntax of each syllable to unearth the meaning that I might have missed. So thanks for your understanding and for giving me a chance to have my say, but for now I'll sit in silence. Yours sincerely, Emily