| John Dunne was a hunter, he hunted wanted men
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| If they’d a price upon their head John Dunne went after them
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| He took the posters at their word when they said alive or dead
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| Nobody tries escaping with a bullet in their head
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| And when he died, he died alone, the way he’d spent his years
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| No bells were rung, no songs were sung, nobody shed a tear
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| No keening and no flowers, no hearse to bring him home
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| John Dunne was a hunter and John Dunne died alone
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| John Dunne made his living fighting other people’s wars
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| He neither knew nor cared what causes he was fighting for
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| Whoever paid his wages bought his loyalty and mind
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| When John Dunne went to work he left his heart and soul behind
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| And when he died, he died alone, in some god-forsaken hole
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| No funeral oration, just curses on his soul
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| Supper for the scavengers was how he met his end
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| John Dunne was a mercenary and he died without a friend
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| John Dunne he sold armaments, to anyone who’d buy
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| The deal was cash, no questions asked, no how or who or why
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| No mercy for the living, no conscience for the dead
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| Good or bad or right or wrong never entered John Dunne’s head
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| And when he died, he died alone, no loved ones by his side
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| No elegies, no broken hearts, laments or sad goodbyes
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| No fond words of remembrance, not even kindly lies
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| No-one even noticed it the day that John Dunne died |