Oh farewell you streets of sorrow. And farewell you streets of pain. I'll not return to feel more sorrow. Nor to see more young men slain. Through the last six years I've lived through terror. And in the darkened streets the pain. Oh how I long to find some solace. In my mind I curse the strain. So farewell you streets of sorrow. And farewell you streets of pain. No I'll not return to feel more sorrow. Nor to see more young men slain. 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 seven long days. God help you if ever you're caught on these shores. 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 by 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.