The Pub

The faces are the same night after night.

The words they speak fall hollow on the bar.

And as the singers sing of Ireland,

They try to open up those age old scars.

They sing the songs lamenting those times past

They fought against the bloody black and tan.

With pikes and weapons fashioned best they could,

They stood as one, each patriotic man.

Gone are those noble patriotic times,

Dissolved into the mists of Ireland.

And all that’s left are dregs of dreams betrayed

And lost illusions of the hope for man.