1
Twenty after midnight on a March morning,
the fire exit door swung open again,
the crowed scattered thin and let the medics in
to revive him
they pumped on his chest, kissed his blue lips,
didn't want to think it but they knew he'd slipped,
far away above the city into the morning rain,
leaving a cold corpse,
murdered down that Sidetracks lane.
 
Chorus
The sanctuary's light glowing bright on us all,
can be blacker than his blood under the white-washed walls,
sacred as the secretive deep,
it holds and keeps,
take a wander down along the old Spring Lane,
think about our city how they buried his name,
underneath the green leafy shade,
where he sported and played.
 
2
Moynihan had walked the streets of Cork that night,
twenty three years old out with his friend on a skyte,
his footfall on a path under the city lights for the last time,
the clubs pulse was pumping onto Grafton Street,
he turned down the lane, he staggered off beat,
pulling in his focus on the men he'd meet,
who were working the door,
misted by the rooms red heat.
 
3
The words that he formed fell broken and slow,
the word they gave back was a cut and dried no,
their eyes fixed a plan as he was leaving to go,
back to the soft night,
a shadow from behind goaded low in his ear,
he matched what he heard with a raging flare,
then the black suited pack circled in from the back,
he had taken the bait,
drifted blind into the trap
 
Chorus
 
4
In a dusty grey light, the scripted word explained
from twisted mouths and hollow eyes, the story feigned,
no prosecutions, nobody blamed
for his murder
nobody bit him or kicked him face down,
dragged inside that door,
no-one pinned him to the ground,
his hands behind his back by no-one else were bound,
when he choked for his last breath,
no-one showed mercy on those dying sounds.
 
Chorus.

the pasteboard marks