5.14am. Limerick City, Ireland.

5am is for the quiet people.
The not so great at lying people.
It's the paradise of tired eyes.
And broken cities built 'round spires.

It's for cake bakers, and theatre makers.
For taxi drivers, and red-eye flight survivors.
It's for farmers waking, for fresh bread baking,
For shelf stackers, and pure dodgy knackers.

It's for strolling home after a long night out.
It's waking for work after a lash on the town.
It's a glimmer of hope at your local ER.
It's a mother and child, up rocking since 4.

It's the time of binge-watchers, rubbing blood shot eyes,
New life being born, greeting the day with their cries.
Old folks being woken by a creak in their bones,
Their children still stirring, up checking their phones.

This world is much louder as the city still sleeps,
From high-rise to cottage the sandman still creeps.
Every breath becomes thunder, each step a new song,
The quiet won't last. They'll wake before long.

But 'til then, this is ours, it's our city of peace.
We respect it, neglect it, but our city's unique.
From castle to country, and all inbetween,
5am is for the quiet people, D'you know what I mean?