“I know a girl,” the woman said, “Who suffered really hard.
The soldiers smashed her back gate down, and ripped apart her yard.
And not being happy with just that, they forced into her house,
Then ripped up all her floorboards, treated her just as a louse.
They badly treated all her wain’s, the stinking English pig’s,
And left her place a shambles, they didn’t give two friggs.
And the reason for all this? It really is some fun!
They said that Bernie’s wee small house had a hidden gun.”
“I know a man” the veteran said, “Who really is quite bad.
And the reason for his suffering is wrong and it is sad.
He was on duty near the bridge, the time the bomb went off.
He’d been on his way to save the day, and he received the wroth.
He was blown clear across street, he nearly lost his legs, and feet,
And finally had the splendid treat, of being mocked from down the street.
Nowadays he hardly walks at all, football had been his game.
He would be quite upset if I were to reveal his name.”
“I know a man,” the doctor said, “ who really is quite ill.
He will take no medication, he will take no calming pill.
The reason for his malady is really hard to see.
He wont watch Northern Ireland stuff that comes on the TV.
He gets horrendous nightmares, and visions in his head,
For one night many years ago he shot a young kid dead.
And now he’s just turned fifty five, that moment will live on
And he will relive that awful time ‘till his last breath is done.”
“I know a place,” the spirit said, “Where hell lived every day.
It was the dark & dismal hole where my life ebbed away.
And not just mine, but thousands more, have walked the path to St Peters door,
The offal scraped from off the floor, the butchers score.
And those whose lives were smashed apart, who live life day by day.
The victims of that dreadful war, struggle to survive today.
There is no answer to this quiz, no reason for the fight.
History will record the facts, but not the wrong from right.”