Christy Moore on the stage is a eloquent rage
In the eye of the storm he is still
And his sonorous voice really gives you no choice
As you find your mind bend to his will
The tools of his trade are all simple and played
With driving and rhythmic passion
Drumming his drum shooting words from his gun
Commitment is always in fashion
Chorus:
There are song-writing singers and singers of song
They all have their place in the van
But if you want an artist who burns like a fire
I’d say Christy Moore is your man
With the blur of his wrist and the beat of his fist
Christy rattles the bones of a song
And it’s clear from the start that the crowd plays its part
In the art as the song dances on
Christy’s voice speaks as the storm cracks its cheeks
And never shows signs of abating
Nothing on Earth between dying and birth
Compares to the act of creating
Chorus
Now the weaving of words like the weaving of cloth
Is a trade that improves by the using
As the lyrics cascade and the craft is displayed
Rhymers dazzle the crowd with their musing
Sweat on their brow and their hands to the plough
They’re sharing the fruits of the tree
Music is wine so we’ll dine from the vine
As we swim in eternity’s sea
