I don’t hear my lingo on the radio, 
I don’t see your silver on the line, 
When the choice was to be hungry, or to be cold, 
How’d you look your children in the eye?
Drape a burning flag over the cenotaph,
Tell them ‘sorry boys but it looks like evil won’
How’d we stray so far from off the beaten path?
And hatred has become our common tongue. 

Well I don’t see your glory in the collieries, 
When hardened men have pickled their insides, 
And when they talk of what it was to lose their industry, 
You can see the memory swimming in their eyes, 
No-one builds a hospital in golden shoes, 
No-one builds a school in a suit and tie, 
And I swear that if we are to see the end of you, 
It will not be by your hand, but by mine

Michael McCluskey

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