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