There were six men in Birmingham, in Guildford there's four

That were picked up and tortured and framed by the law

And the filth got promotion, but they're still doing time

For being Irish in the wrong place and at the wrong time



In Ireland they'll put you away in the Maze

In England they'll keep you for several long days

God help you if ever you're caught on these shores

And the coppers need someone and they walk through that door



You'll be counting years, first five, then ten -growing old

in a lonely hell round the yard and the stinking cell



From wall to wall, and back again, a curse on the judges

The coppers and screws who tortured the innocent

Wrongly accused, for the price of promotion and justice to sell

May the judged be their judges when they rot down in hell



May the whores of the empire lie awake in their beds

And sweat as they count out the sins on their heads

While over in Ireland eight more men lie dead

Kicked down and shot in the back of the head