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Over the top of Tammy hill 
came Tully’s motor car, 
Tully never drove it very fast 
nor ever very far.

In his youth he’d taught us all
How to pilot our ride, 
It was a job he did very well
And in it found his pride.

But now Tully was an older gent 
approaching eighty-three, 
And he was a pretty good driver still 
for a man who couldn’t see. 

So when it became known to all 
that Tully was on a drive, 
It was best for them to stay inside 
If they hoped to stay alive. 

Whenever he detected movement 
in his line of sight, 
He’d steer his car right for it 
and do so with delight. 

He’d assume that he’d happened upon 
some traffic on the lane, 
It didn’t really matter to him at all 
if it was an auto or a train. 

All that ever mattered to Tully 
was that he found his way to the pub, 
And he was about to spend an evening 
of Guinness and Irish grub. 

Then one night I’d had enough 
and was in fear of poor Tully’s life, 
The thought of the blind old man 
behind the wheel added to my strife. 

So I lifted the bonnet on his ride 
and removed the distributor cap, 
When I was done I was greeted by 
some locals as they began to clap. 

When Tully finally stumbled out 
he found that his ride was no longer game, 
He took out a pistol and shot it dead 
As if it a horse that had turned up lame.

Now Tully has moved to town
And can walk wherever he goes.
Off in the direction of the wind
And follows wherever it blows.

And when a car comes down the lane,
To the side he’ll frantically dive.
He’ll shake his fist and yell at them,
“Who was it that taught you to drive?”

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