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The bomb lay hidden under the road,

The detonator primed and steady,

The finger was poised and ready to go

To be pressed when everyone's ready.

The bomb was planted in the dead of night,

Everything planned in tight order,

The deaths arranged for the following day.

Hidden wires trailed back over the border.


The armoured car slowly rounded the bend,

With four young men inside,

Keeping their vigil, through armoured slots,

With keen eyes, open wide.


They'd been in Northern Ireland for less than a month,

As part of their service, they said,

And who would have known, as they set out that day,

That, in less than an hour, they'd be dead?


As they reached the spot, the bomb went off,

With a gigantic, inhuman roar,

And the four young men, who crouched inside,

Were not four young men anymore.


Some called the ambush, a patriotic act,

For those soldiers were getting their due.

Maintaining sovereignty over a land,

Being claimed by a murderous few.


For these are the men of the I.R.A.,

The military arm of Sinn Fein,

Who argue that there's is such a just cause,

That they can murder, and murder again.


Some call them heroes, others murderous swine,

Taking advantage of democratic life.

They wouldn't survive in a dictatorship,

Or create such unbelievable strife.


They stroll, as free men, in our cities and towns,

Without let, or hindrance, or fear,

Planning their murders and planting their bombs,

'Cos we can't recognize them, my dear.


Their aim is to create disruption and fear,

To achieve their nationalist ends.

No one knows how many more deaths there must be,

Or what the future portends.


And they're not alone, for money rolls in,

From Libya and dear Old Uncle Sam,

Who invites their thumb, into his golden plum

As he thinks, what a good boy I am.


But America is a gun toting society,

Which they defend to the very last breath,

Whilst they stand by and watch regretfully,

As their schoolchildren are gunned down, to death.


Whenever we hear of the Irish-cum-Yank,

It's always in support of 'The Cause',

Fighting British oppression, so they'd have you believe,

But this doesn't make sense, because -


The I.R.A. is in the minority,

There's plenty more who went overseas,

Who took domicile in the great U.S.A.,

And don't have persuasions like these!


 Perhaps they're content, avoiding a fuss,

Or they think it's a bit of a drag.

To have had a forebear from the 'Ould Country',

Who walked under a Unionist flag.


It has to be said that we don't really mind,

Whether Northern Ireland goes, or it stays,

We want for all, what they all want for themselves,

And to stop their terrorist ways.


The tragedy is that they donít want to talk,

They're as divided as ever before.

And, if we withdrew, to let them decide,

There'd be the biggest, bloodiest war!


So what is the ultimate answer to be?

McGuinness and  Adams conspire.

In an atmosphere of mounting Unionist wrath,

That's bound to add fuel to the fire.


In the meantime, mothers of Britain, keep giving birth,

And make sure that you give birth to men,

By the time they're grown up, they'll be needed you see.

As I.R.A. targets again!


But wait !  Perhaps Iím mistaken because  ÖÖ.


They're strutting about, like diplomats now,

This diplomacy lark's quite a cinch.

Well, they may be lauded in the U.S.A.,

But can they be trusted an inch?


Their propaganda squad is working all night,

Churning out excuses after excuse,

So that, if they don't get  just what they want,

They can again turn their gunmen lose.


These gunmen wait, in the dole queue,

Drawing our cash and our State benefit.

Reading their latest copy of the I.R.A. news,

About how to kill the next Brit!


And so my friends, just how will it end?

Do they really want to talk about peace?

Will they accept the majority choice?

So that murder and mayhem may cease?


I 'm sorry but there is a hardcore,

That wants everyone in the same boat,

And without submission to all their demands,

They'll once again go for the throat!


Come on Messrs. Adams and McGuinness

Think of your people and that strong Irish charm

Do your best for all, throughout Ireland

Don't let them come to anymore harm.  


Do away with your bombs and your rifles,

Grow tall in your political coat,

Achieve a united Ireland,

By the strength of a democratic vote.

By Feu Tile.  

Dedicated to the people of the island of Ireland.

Author: Trevor Durbidge   Copyright © 2001 [TJD].   All rights reserved.  Revised: October 30, 2007 .

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