[MURAL I] ALEC HIGGINS & GEORDIE BEST Geordie you’re a boy, make a big noise Play it in to feet, gonna be a big man someday Lodger for a lady, Matt Busby’s new baby Soon to be the fifth Beatle or some might say In your nightclubs and boutiques you were talk of the town Then a tribute on an airport when your plane went down And maybe if I’d never left There would still be Alec Higgins and blushing Best Chuckling in the park as they confessed Yes, maybe if I’d never left You could walk past Hurricane Higgins and Geordie Best Walking sticks leant against forgetfulness The two old boys as the best of friends got away with all the bad stuff in the end As if it all worked out OK, and I’d never left Alec you’re a fiend, keep your tip clean Tearing through the reds at the Jam Pot on Sandy Row You went over like George after falling off your horse How you potted from the corners God only knows A can of Guinness for his tea is all Alec would ever need You’re so bitter, you could never bounce back from the ban And maybe if I’d never left There would still be Alec Higgins and blushing Best Chuckling in the park as they confessed Yes, maybe if I’d never left You could walk past Hurricane Higgins and Geordie Best Walking sticks leant against forgetfulness The two old boys as the best of friends got away with all the bad stuff in the end As if it all worked out OK, and I’d never left Geordie you’re a boy, make a big noise Fallin’ in the street, like your Mum, to your Da’s dismay Alec you’re a fiend, keep your tip clean Hustling and sticking in your throat ‘til your dying day The two old boys as the best of friends got away with all the bad stuff in the end FIND TOMORROW “How can it possibly stop”, she said When the news report came through “It’s not nearly enough”, he said In the compensation queue A final tear the day you die A tear held back throughout the trial It’s time you took your time and lived your lives Pull off your Celtic shirt And unzip my dancin’ skirt Your father doesn’t have to know It’s up to us to let it go It’s up to us to keep it close It’s up to us to let it go and find tomorrow Take your shoebox down from the bookcase And turn it out across the bed Take your mirror down, out of your face And push the tension from your head The casket’s closed to cold benign The rage has rotted with their eyes It’s time you took your time and lived your lives Pull off your Rangers shirt And unzip my dancin’ skirt Your mother doesn’t have to know It’s up to us to let it go It’s up to us to keep it close It’s up to us to let it go and find tomorrow There is no impending pennance And no agonising wait There is no shining iceberg To sink your ugly freight For all your dying husbands inside And all your mourning and ruined wives You need to take your time It’s time you took your time You need to take your time and live your lives OLD COLLINS IS A LONG TIME DEAD Old Collins is a long time dead Old Collins is a long time dead Partition’s still and issue We’ve yet to really miss you They haven’t gone away he said Old Collins is a long time dead From Empire to a Commonwealth, a new era set the scene A general election splits the orange from the green Anticipate conscription and thank God for armistice He organised the volunteers to more active service The swift low-flying columns who hid in tenements Dreamed up in university - a different internment The devil De Valera would court the Catholic vote And swan around America while Collins took the boat [MURAL II] PAISLEY There’s no substitute for status in this old dirty business And there’s nothing like politics for patronising heretics I’ve often imagined your funeral, where no-one f*cking came A quiet little statement, not out of respect, but out of shame We wait for them all to go soft and die, and lay them in the earth Then the new state is born and immediately breaks the gangs to prove its worth I’ve often imagined your sermons on mid-July Sundays For all the bits you’re leaving out what’s even left to say It’s all a bit Old Testament - the angry God says no And promises rivers of Loyalist blood to Thatcher and the Pope Woe unto thee, Reverend Paisley You smiled so hard with those Ballymena teeth For dear old Ian so loved the Lord, Ulster fists will be banging for evermore It’s the same for the Orange Order and the Grand Masonic Lodge and the Church: clamber up the pyramid til you’re next to God We wait for all that to go soft and die and lay it in the earth Then the new state sits behind its desk and thanks Ian for all his work Woe unto thee, Reverend Paisley You smiled so hard with those Ballymena teeth For dear old Ian so loved the Lord, Ulster fists will be banging for evermore BLOODY SQUADDIE Throw a rock, throw a rock, fire a plastic bullet Pale from shock, pale from shock, screaming for to cool it Bogside, waterside, side-swipe riot Peaceful march, civil rights, squaddie doesn’t but it The delicate situation now demands Parades and marches all be banned Trickle down the chain of command More than 13’s blood on your hands They’ll smear blood on your English streets And they’ll smear blood where your family sleeps The delicate situation now demands Parades and marches all be banned Risin up against the state Supplement the tired police But handed to them on a plate The only excuse they’d ever need Shoring up to keep the state The boys came in to keep the peace To see a white hanky - but shoot anyway Decades pass, and then an election A minister for education Could the boy knocked by the system Re-invent and try to govern Can we tolerate to trust him? Or have we thrown our own white towel in? The latest strategic action now demands Tricky exams all be banned Risin up against the state Supplement the tired police But handed to them on a plate The only excuse they’d ever need Shoring up to keep the state The boys came in to keep the peace To see a white hanky - but shoot anyway Throw a rock, throw a rock, fire a plastic bullet Pale from shock, pale from shock, screaming for to cool it Bogside, waterside, side-swipe riot Peaceful march, civil rights, squaddie doesn’t but it Risin up… OLD COLLINS II Old Collins is a long time dead Old Collins is a long time dead Partition’s still and issue We’ve yet to really miss you They haven’t gone away he said Old Collins is a long time dead Burning down the customs house, he’s making his demand For the keys of Dublin Castle to be placed into his hand Ten thousand pounds dead or alive, his blood to buy and sell The King’s writ doesn’t run here, nor in the Woodenbridge Hotel We got plenty of sovereignty but still no republic The freedom to achieve freedom - banal old rhetoric What a mess the Easter Rising, what a farce at Bail-na-Bla What damage done by grand ideas, we’ll never know the half Old Collins is a long time dead Old Collins is a long time dead Partition’s still and issue We’ve yet to really miss you They haven’t gone away he said Old Collins is a long time dead GREATER THINGS Born in Wolverhampton, raised in South Armagh Learned the No Surrender from the Tiocfaidh ar la A common-law orphan, played Gaelic football ‘Til they stopped the bus in Kingsmill and just shot them all Fair retaliation in a no-rules war Lead to mushrooming recruitment of the young and sore After family tragedy and carrying guns Came up reborn, from being down in prison Hoped to walk with God, but got waylaid Stood against the ceasefire, felt a point should be made In support of the marchers, kept the Orange faith Smack and ecstasy funds a sectarian disgrace Great books have been written about greater things Maverick killings to support Drumcree Michael McGoldrick, Happy Birthday Billy Claimed undeserving of the name King Rat Did the great inventer of the Loyalist spat Expelled by the big boys for refusing the boat He threatened a woman with cutting her throat One half of an H-block, biding their time With the INLA on the other side They ruled no collusion, but security failed For a thug to be silenced, a cross to be nailed Then a dance in Dungannon got the Kingsmill routine Another measured response in this troubled quarantine Great books have been written about greater things Two masked gunmen in orange shirts Put a Shankill Road ceasefire on yellow alert Disappear up Conway Street and back to base Dispatched the leadership’s bullet through a red-hand face A mural-sized message about flouting authority The police should be given every assistance by the community We were all told that your guns had gone We never really believe, we hoped you’d prove us wrong Great books have been written about greater things It’s sad to die, it should be sad But it all depends on the life you’ve had Great books have been written about greater things YOUR GARDEN Your garden is tended by the residents Your garden is barbaric and it’s neatly swept Your garden is dignified* in granite *disfigured? Your garden is full of tour guides so it’s never quiet Does it calm you down? Does it move things on? Does it celebrate these things or commiserate? Don’t spoil it Don’t spoil it To distill out bad blood you’ve got to boil it In your garden there is a lamplight that’s always on Your garden is for volunteers, prisoners, civilians Your garden shows respect for those who served Your garden is exactly what you deserve Does it blur the lines? Does is sanctify? Does it pacify you lot? Or inspire you? Don’t spoil it Don’t spoil it To distill out bad blood you’ve got to boil it Does it calm you down? Does it move things on? Does it celebrate these things or commiserate? Don’t spoil it Don’t spoil it To distill out bad blood you’ve got to boil it They’re whiting out the murals to stop us looking back A parliamentary cure-all and a blue plaque They’re whiting out the murals to stop us looking back A parliamentary cure-all and a blue plaque SECRET STORY Stop telling my secret story
 We all know it properly, we all tell it differently
 So when you make your little movie, don’t be too careful
 Don’t tell my version – Tell your version, or disrupt everything Stop telling my secret story
 Of bodily debris, and signs you cannot see Photographs of weapons retired to certain shady bunker locations unknown by normals
 Archive footage of civilian character actors, urgent and morose, and poses in murals
 Flashbacks of night-time incendiaries, balaclavas and sunglasses at funerals
 Meetings that don’t make sense, that wouldn’t happen outside the story
 Chance transcendiaries of TV news and familial allegiances, 
On sporting pitches and regional showcasions
 Community solidarity and libraries of fraternal ties, values to unite and antagonise A shared propaganda, fumbling in translation
 From side to side, a shunting commissive, a bumpy ride
 Derision and condemnation in a secretive narrative But a flaccid third act, this ripening story, failing to inspire even speculation 
After the tabulation of statistics and the invoice has been returned
 Only estimation of how the car-bomb decibel used to ring
 What kind of a thing? And is it too late to tell? Stop telling my secret story
 Of bodily debris, and signs you cannot see
 A title doesn’t make a story you know Compensation tossed after frustration
 And monuments in gardens of earnest forgetting
 No paranoia of lessons unlearned
 No leap to objectivity – for that would bring
 Shuddering whiplash, a mocking and crumpled rebound caused by sticky shoe-soles
 The monuments are outside, and outside
 Not our side and their side
 On some new layer, hovering over optimism
 For distant eyes, not inside lives
 A pointing up of the storyline, that makes
 Remembering feel like amnesia
 And flashbacks quake to anaesthesia
I I won’t have my story used up for that
 The characters are all the same – but my movie is better cast
 Some folks wouldn’t even begin to tell you because of that
 They wouldn’t even tell their own children 
I reserve the right to reprimand, as you observe but fail to understand
 My secret story Stop telling my secret story
 We all know it properly, we all tell it differently
 So when you make your little movie, don’t be too careful 
Don’t tell my version – Tell your version, or disrupt everything 
I will pause your movie,
 And think in different directions,
 And miss my connection OLD COLLINS III Old Collins is a long time dead
 Old Collins is a long time dead
 Partition’s still and issue
 We’ve yet to really miss you 
They haven’t gone away he said
 Old Collins is a long time dead The IRA it can’t hold out, the Brits won’t give an inch 
We cannot stomach compromise, not then nor ever since
 Wild men screaming through the keyhole, safe in cowardice
 They pray with their high standards although they’re meaningless
 Let the radicals all kill themselves so the bores can run and run
 The Boundary Commission fails to banish partition They expected this N.I. to fail as an economic state
 In 90 years, look at yourselves, do tigers hibernate?  [MURALS IV] HERE WE ARE AGAIN Here we are again, here we are again A cluster of deserters facing west with their eyes low Here we are with breast-pocket ball-point pens queuing to go Queuing to go Collar and sleeves And something to read Here we are again A window of acquaintance in reverse measured nicely Here we are, but soon are gone politely: see you in a week See you in week For it’s blowin’ a gale Through your January sales Here we are again Again we are connected and displaced A photograph of a familiar face You compare and check your progress with the list and miss And kiss the tourist The distance now endureth To anywhere we are again Here we are again Imagine ‘round the status of the plans and lament the chances Your next event is just around the bend so bend back the branches Bend the branches back Bend ‘em back You haven’t a clue What you’re going to do Here we are again Again we are connected and displaced A photograph of a familiar face You compare and check your progress with the list and miss And kiss the tourist The distance now endureth To anywhere we are again, forthwith There you are brave face, and here we are There you are brave face, and here we are There you are brave face, and here we are There you are brave face, and here we are VAN THE MAN Well I went to see my idol, I thought, what if he dies on stage? It’d be just like an undertaker dying while digging his own grave But he didn’t, he was brilliant, and the way he played Made me think if I’m gonna do this, I’d better up my game to stand a chance And what else - apart from “it was good” - would I hope to write? No matter what I was always gonna have a great night What kind of epiphany did I half-predict? Some kind of literary-holy-spirit-pink-fit or Ulster trance? I played this to my idol, and asking if it was good I watched his lips explaining to check he understood But he didn’t, he was too polite, he liked the song a lot And win or lose I’m gonna have to give this all I’ve got or there’s no chance I’m well-healed, and I’m on my way back home I’m well-heeled, and I’m after that horizon I’m well-healed, and I’m on my way back home I’m well-heeled, and I’m after that horizon LOSING MY ACCENT I remember once losing my wallet
 Way back at the end of my teens
 In truth it was picked from my pocket
 By some hallion in search of the Queen 
I expect they drank most of the money
 So that probably wound up the same
 But the cards must’ve been pretty useless
 Because all of them brandished my name
 My granny picked one in brown leather
 For the wearing it had to be thick
 But I lost it with all of my money 
That day when my pocket was picked 
I remember inside was a photo of me 
And another of somebody else 
There might’ve been one with the both of us 
Safely hidden with my worldly wealth 15 years later I’m losing my accent
 Time has hollowed the weight of my sighs
 You might still decipher the spring in my step
 But you’ll flag the bags under my eyes
 And if when I’m talking you get distracted by a certain mutation of tone
 Don’t remark that I’m losing my accent
 Just raise me a glass and welcome me home I’m gradually losing the sponsor 
From the front of my Liverpool top
 The white of it flakes off so easily 
There’s no way that I can make it stop 
Here where it used to say Carlsberg
 Only these abstract shapes can be seen 
Despite the washing machine’s tireless efforts 
You can still make out my favourite team
 The sponsor was out of date anyway
 And the red it is tending to pink 
It’s tricky to mask your true colours
 They stick to you more than you think But you might have noticed that I’m losing my accent
 You may notice the weight of my sighs
 You might have detected a spring in my step 
But flagged the bags under my eyes
 But if when I’m talking you get distracted by a certain mutation of tone please Don’t remark that I’m losing my accent
 Just raise me a glass and welcome me home Sammy Crooks stands at the roadside 
He’s lost all the feel of his toes
 At the back of his mind he did wonder 
If they’d end up as black as his robes
 Old Sam’s shuffled off of his step now 
But another has taken his place
 You might not get the shake and the lecture 
But you’ll still see a red rosy face 
So put a crisp note in his barrel
 Just in lieu of the myrrh and the gold
 He might not talk like Big Sammy
 But sure he’s there in the steps in the cold Well if when I’m talking you get distracted by a certain mutation of tone
 Don’t remark that I’m losing my accent 
Just walk me through the Flagship 
Through the side door of Fealty’s
 Because I don’t feel that different… [MURAL V}