Posted by: straightedge [x] - (66.245.33.---)
Date: April 12, 2005 03:49AM
Stiff Little Fingers

Oh it must seem so romantic
When the fighting's over there
And they're passing round the shamrock
And you're all filled up with tears
"For the love of dear old Ireland"
That you've never even seen
You throw in twenty dollars
And sing "Wearing of the Green"

(Chorussmiling smiley
Each dollar a bullet
Each victim someone's son
And Americans kill Irishmen
As surely as if they fired the gun

Now you've never stood on Belfast's streets
And heard the bombs explode
Or hid beneath the blankets
When there's riots down the road
No, you've never had your best friend die
Or lost a favourite son
But you'll stand there and tell us
Just what we're doing wrong

Each false word a bullet
Each victim someone's son
And Englishmen kill Irishmen
As surely as if they fired the gun

From the minute that you're born you're told
to hate the other side
"They're not like us, they're not the same
We know because we're right"
But can't you see we're all the same
There is no right and wrong
Why can't we stop and realise
We've hated too much, too long

Each old lie a bullet
Each victim someone's son
And Irishmen kill Irishmen
As surely as if they fired the gun

How can you convince yourself
That what you do is right?
When people are dying there
Night after night
Don't you ever wonder
Why it stilll goes on?
The hopes and fears and all the tears
Are buried in your ground
Buried in your ground

Each rumour a bullet
Each victim someone's son
And careless talk kills Irishmen
As surely as if words fired the gun

Well it's lasted for so long now
And so many have died
It's such a part of my own life
Yet it leaves me mystified
How a people so intelligent
Friendly, kind and brave
Can throw themselves so willingly
Into an open grave

Each new day a bullet
Each victim someone's son
And ignorance kills Irishmen
As surely as if we fired the gun

Posted by: dub [x] - (66.245.33.---)
Date: April 13, 2005 05:18PM
Pogues - Birmingham Six

There were six men in birmingham
In guildford there's four
That were picked up and tortured
And framed by the law
And the filth got promotion
But they're still doing time
For being irish in the wrong place
And at the wrong time
In ireland they'll put you away in the maze
In england they'll keep you for seven long days
God help you if ever you're caught on these shores
The coppers need someone
And they walk through that door

You'll be counting years
First five, then ten
Growing old in a lonely hell
Round the yard and the stinking cell
From wall to wall, and back again

A curse on the judges, the coppers and screws
Who tortured the innocent, wrongly accused
For the price of promotion
And justice to sell
May the judged by their judges when they rot down in hell

May the whores of the empire lie awake in their beds
And sweat as they count out the sins on their heads
While over in ireland eight more men lie dead
Kicked down and shot in the back of the head
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