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They sit, and watch the clouds go byAnd make believe it's Irish skiesThey love the sun, but pray for rainThey drink to take away the painThe London streets are paved with goldFor the London IrishYou gain the world and you lose your soul Well if your picture is seen on the cover of every magazineAnd every TV screen, will there be anything leftOf the London Irish?They say they will return again,But they won't say exactly when...