an stuth mu dheireadh

Hallo, a chairdean, chan eil mi air a bhith cho trang sna laithean mu dheireadh. Ach mhothaich mi gum bi da leabhar ur Ghaidhlig a' nochdadh aig feis air choireigin ann an Dun Eideann aig Deireadh a' mhios. Gu dearbh, tha an fheadhainn a chuir Ur-Sgeul a-mach fior thaitneach, agus sann le dochas a tha mi a' coimhead an fhoillseachaidh. Gu dearbh, tha Tocasaid 'ain Tuirc gle mhath, a' cruthachadh dealbh de Nis mar sgire sona, stolda, ann an coltas ri Deireadh an Fhoghair agus leabhraichean mar sin. Tha e a'toirt dhomh fior thlachd a bhith ga leughadh, an coimeas ri Dacha mo Ghaol, a bha eibhinn ann am piosan, ach a bha feumach air barrachd leudachadh air an sgeil.

Co-dhiu comhla ri sgrudadh litreachais, seo mo dhaintean mu dheireadh a chaidh a dhiultadh.

There's a crisis in their butchery
The state is built on dope
And anyone who rebels
Will go follow the pope
Into a state of monkery
The nuns fuck each and all
In the rising tide of bureaucracy
All have a junkie's pall
The smack-heads are the victims
Of a plot the goons impose
On us all, its government
The curse of these and those
The agencies engage the warlords
And they pollute our veins
So fuck it all let's kill
All those who hold the reins
Who hold us in thrall to witchery
The meaning of the past
Is outdone by the present
There is no truth at last
We live our lives catastrophically
And slave and toil for none
Except the cause of submission
Our roasting's almost done
For religion is just hell on earth
The cause to live for the dead
And capitalism is the same
Which bursts out of your head
To speak of love and holy thunder
While ripping tendons and thoughts asunder
Is all their love has ever meant
Our justice here is heaven sent

Yryn-ai-tojon said to his wife
Farewell, let us flee
We've spent so long forgotten
That no-one makes their plea
To us as masters of the world
We'd rather sink our teeth in flesh
The donkey child has spoken
As his parents leave the creche
To bring us a new sacrifice
The American chief on a plate
No God grows mighty from murder
And in fact his power abates
If there was ever a need for mythology
We'd redeem the Christian mess
Gods are descended from men
And Jesus was never blessed
With the lightning caress of a bosom
The derangement that proves fickle
When lusts begin to mingle
And hair is found to tickle
If so he'd spend less on love
And more on Antichrist
There is no God in churches
Religion is a heist
Except when any man
Proclaims himself a greater god
Than the popes and Presidents
Who live their lives to sod
So freedom is the answer
To God and Jesu's riddle
If anyone sees themselves as holy
What right have we to quibble

Ma tha duine agaibhse a' dol a cheannach an clar ur aig na super furry animals, mholainn sin dhuibhse, tha na h-orain air an clar singilte fior mhath. Agus tha dochas ann gum bi iad bhon a leithid cheudna air an album