On the good days we stole cars

just to get beyond these streets,

Its painted curb-stones scars

of our childhoods, incomplete.

 

Toward the border wild and fast

between the check-points glare,

we never thought our luck would last,

that we’d get out of there.

 

Some are dead and some exiled

some others disappeared,

but some remained to be reviled

by those they never feared.

 

The balaclava’d beasts have gone

the pigs and armoured cars,

but drums and whistles still play on

in church halls, clubs and bars.

 

It’s nostalgia now and frontline tours

all Guinness, Beer and Songs,

fine words agreed by titled whores

forgiving all their wrongs.

 

The “Fifty-fifty” and the “Six-pack”

are forgotten now by most,

though not the shattered kneecaps

or by The Mothers of The Ghosts.

 

We’re a two-name town of nervous souls

pressed up against our past,

Joy Riders to the future

and going nowhere fast.