But Maybe It's Your Fault For Giving Us A Reason.Mature

A bitter warning of things to come.

She ordered her men into the neighbouring land

They killed, they pillaged, they destroyed, they maimed,

Ireland’s natives left defenceless and ruined, and

For several hundred years it’s been the same.


Men of the crown lived the life of luxury, of finery and of greed,

Ireland’s people worked to death against their will to provide for their lust.

Enslaved in their own country for being who they were, for no evil deed,

Retaliation is to be expected, revenge is a must.


Day after day Irish blood was spilt upon its own earth,

Éire gó Bradh! Faithful-to-Erin men shouted. Tiocfaidh ar Lá!

They watched the fat cats of ‘An Sasana’ gorge on the Irish-of-birth,

Enjoy it now, we scorned, we’ll soon be laughing down at you from Utopia.


That dirty nation is claiming what is not theirs all over the beautiful globe,

It isn’t just Ireland that feels their gluttonous ways.

The British are wining and dining in jewel and in robe,

The Irish are working to the bone for the money that pays.


Those men loyal to the Britannia crown and her evil plague,

 Reside in the six stolen counties where our most bitter are trapped.

To the traditional but false ‘freedom’, farewell we bade

But Carson’s people soon shall get their blood-soaked knuckles rapped.


The loyal-to-Éire of Ulaidh great fought to the death to be free

The spirits of those courageous ones gone before them lived on

Ireland the beautiful is ours and ours alone, why can’t they see?

Through the eyes of God and our glorious ones, we see their selfish con.


The architecture of the Empire is lies, pride, gluttony, ignorance and blame

While what is left of Ireland’s identity and individuality is in bits.

True Irishmen are smouldering and stagnant; Brits shall be put to shame,

We shall rise again and rip you from the Irish ground upon which you sit.

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed