They build bombs and aim their pistols in the shadow of the cross
And they swear an oath of vengeance to the martyrs they have lost
But they pray for peace on Sundays with a rosary in each hand
It's long memories and short tempers that have cursed poor Ireland
It's long memories and short tempers that have cursed poor Ireland

We have cousins on the old sod and we don't forget our kin
From Boston we send more guns and we tell them they can win
Then we turn back to our green beer and to MacNamara's Band
It's true friends with false perceptions that have cursed poor I

Life is born in memories
Maids are buried by ashes
Headless preachers drinking their blood
Forget your disgrace
By selling souls to hell
Stop - The - Madness
Murders ignored - Pain fills my fear
Burning houses possessed by my curse
Sadistic creatures - Torture my soul
An endless manipulation calls me god

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