| Margaret Reed O' Shaughnessy | 
| Thank Christ I’m not your enemy | 
| There’s no struggler loves ya more than me | 
| Oh, Margaret Reed O' Shaughnessy | 
| Margaret ground against her knuckles | 
| To hold her temper at her teeth | 
| Funerals are triggers in an Irish family | 
| And daddy was a lion | 
| But he also was a louse | 
| She swallowed twice to | 
| Clear the bile from her mouth | 
| The house, awash with sycophants | 
| Instantly enshrined | 
| The parish priest, the butcher’s boy | 
| The football player’s wife | 
| All busy painting angel wings | 
| Complicit in the lie | 
| That’s the way we Irish do it when we die | 
| Riddles wrapped in rosary | 
| Clover grenades | 
| Fools who suffer mightily | 
| As our high Saint Sinead | 
| We celebrate our loneliness | 
| Our combustible rage | 
| «He made us this way» | 
| Not that Margaret wasn’t her own complicated layer cake | 
| Educator/activist — | 
| Republican gone straight | 
| Traded Weather Underground | 
| For some peacetime in the shade | 
| But in her heart of hearts | 
| She is as she was made | 
| When she shaved her head | 
| At Trinity and toured BDSM | 
| Clinical, athletic sex — | 
| Detached, competitive | 
| The discipline appealed to her | 
| The flogging and the rules | 
| But the emptiness roared back when she was through | 
| A missile wrapped in rosary | 
| A clover grenade | 
| Fools were suffered mightily | 
| She shot sharp like Sinead | 
| And bristled at her loneliness | 
| Her combustible rage | 
| «They made me this way» | 
| Margaret Reed O' Shaughnessy | 
| Thank Christ I’m not your enemy | 
| There’s no struggler lovers ya more than me | 
| Oh, Margaret Reed O' Shaughnessy | 
| Margaret learned to make her fate | 
| When Uncle James lisped with a wink | 
| «If you’re not tall enough to touch the bar | 
| You’re not tall enough to drink!» | 
| She jumped and smacked it with her palm | 
| The day that she turned six; | 
| She’s wrestled Jameson’s and Guinness ever since | 
| (And tonight she’s losing | 
| Tonight she’s getting her ass kicked) | 
| My missile wrapped in rosary | 
| My clover grenade | 
| Fools picked apart her sanity | 
| She collapsed like Sinead | 
| Encircled in her loneliness | 
| Her combustible rage | 
| «Who made me this way?» | 
| Margaret Reed O' Shaughnessy | 
| Thank Christ I’m not your enemy | 
| There’s no struggler loves ya more than me | 
| Oh, Margaret Reed O' Shaughnessy | 
| Oh, Margaret Reed O' Shaughnessy | 
| Oh, Margaret Reed O' Shaughnessy |