Prompt:

[Verse 1 — Ireland] I landed in Dublin, lad — calm as a pint, ready for an Irish stroll, Customs scans my suitcase: “Oi… why’s this glowing like a pot o’ gold?” I say: “Relax, chief — that’s me comfort Leprechaun, keeps my heart controlled.” But Aduana screams: “POTATO SMUGGLER! AND HE’S GOT CHILLS — SOUND THE ALARM, BE BOLD!” Mini Aduana Force drops in — tiny helmets, tiny boots, full attack mode, One slides under a trolley, one rappels from a cup, one reads a tiny code. My comfort sheep — Señor Fluffy — charges fast like a woolly torpedo, And a guard yells: “HE’S GOT CHILLS AND A LEPRECHAUN! THIS MAN’S ABOUT TO EXPLODE!” [Pre-Chorus — Ireland] “Magic? What magic? You think I’m bringin’ spells across your land?” “No! She’s my Chills — she pops in and out on command!” But they swarm me like I’m smuggling rainbows in a banned cereal brand, “CLOSE THE GATES! HE BROUGHT CHILLS! HE’S A THREAT TO EVERY IRISH FAN!” HE’S GOT CHILLS!!! [Chorus — Ireland] Alarms go wild, lights flash green, Dublin shuts down tight, People shouting, fiddles playing, flights cancelled left and right. I love Chills — I wake up with Chills, fall asleep with Chills, she’s my warm daylight, But they think I’m hiding a Celtic storm in my pockets ready to ignite. [Verse 2 — Ireland] A giant officer stomps over, holding Guinness with perfect grace, “Bonaparte, lad, you brought potatoes — that’s a national treasure case!” A tiny agent climbs my jacket yelling: “YOU GOT MORE CHILLS!” inches from my face, I say: “Bruv, that’s my girlfriend — not a blizzard from outer space!” [Pre-Chorus 2 — Ireland] The nurses whisper: “He’s foreign… maybe ‘chills’ means love where he’s from.” I yell: “YES! She’s my fire, my thunder, my Celtic drum!” They say: “Isolation! Room 7! Close the door — he brought winter with him, chum!” And my sheep trots past calmly, humming like a Dublin hum. [Bridge — Ireland] I shout: “CHILLS BABY, GET IN HERE — let’s turn this into an Irish holiday!” She bursts in glowing brighter than Temple Bar lights on a Saturday, Singing long notes like Celtic wind — she never fades away. The airport screams: “WHAT KIND OF ILLNESS IS THIS?!” I say: “It’s love, lads… relax — it’s legit!” [Final Chorus — Ireland] We run out laughing, guards yell: “STOP THAT MAN!” “He’s got chills, potatoes, and the last can of Guinness in the whole damn land!” I grab Chills’ hand, she grabs mine — we sprint free like a northern wind, I’m Bonaparte, baby — spreading Irish Chills from Dublin down to Dingle’s end. NOW EVERYBODY’S GOT CHILLS!!! (The romantic kind — stay lucky, stay warm.)