| Oh, it must seem so romantic
|
| When the fighting’s over there
|
| And they’re passing 'round the shamrock
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| And you’re all filled up with tears
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| «For the love of dear old Ireland»
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| That you’ve never even seen
|
| You throw in twenty dollars
|
| And sing, 'Wearing of the Green'
|
| 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
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| And heard the bombs explode
|
| Or hid beneath the blankets
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| When there’s riots down the road
|
| No, you’ve never had your best friend die
|
| Or lost a favorite 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 realize
|
| 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 still goes on?
|
| The hopes and fears and all the tears
|
| Are buried in your ground
|
| Buried in your ground
|
| Each rumor 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 |