| Oh farewell you streets of sorrow
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| Oh farewell you streets of pain
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| I’ll not return to feel more sorrow
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| Nor to see more young men slain
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| Through the last six years I’ve lived through terror
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| And in the darkened streets the pain
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| Oh how I long to find some solace
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| In my mind I curse the strain
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| So farewell you streets of sorrow
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| And farewell you streets of pain
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| No I’ll not return to feel more sorrow
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| Nor to see more young men slain
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| There were six men in Birmingham
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| In Guildford there’s four
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| That were picked up and tortured
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| And framed by the law
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| And the filth got promotion
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| But they’re still doing time
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| For being Irish in the wrong place
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| And at the wrong time
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| In Ireland they’ll put you away in the Maze
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| In England they’ll keep you for several long days
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| God help you if ever you’re caught on these shores
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| And the coppers need someone
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| And they walk through that door
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| You’ll be counting years
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| First five, then ten
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| Growing old in a lonely hell
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| Round the yard and the stinking cell
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| From wall to wall, and back again
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| A curse on the judges, the coppers and screws
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| Who tortured the innocent, wrongly accused,
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| For the price of promotion
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| And justice to sell
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| May the judged be their judges when they rot down in hell
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| You’ll be counting years
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| First five, then ten
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| Growing old in a lonely hell
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| Round the yard and lousy cell
|
| From wall to wall, and back again
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| May the whores of the empire lie awake in their beds
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| And sweat as they count out the sins on their heads
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| While over in Ireland eight more men lie dead
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| Kicked down and shot in the back of the head
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| You’ll be counting years
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| First five, then ten
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| Growing old in a freezing hell
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| Round the yard and the lousy cell
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| From wall and back again
|
| Counting years
|
| First five, then ten
|
| Growing old in a lonely hell
|
| Round the yard and the lousy cell
|
| From wall to wall and back again |