Two-thousand-eighteen Shades Of Bromford - Part 284

 
Today is Sunday, the 31st of March 2024.
Easter Sunday.

Happy Easter, said the squirrel.

If I am a bunny, said the white hare, I was eight days too early for Easter.
You know in some parts of the world
they say that church bells hide the Easter eggs
or at least lose them on their way back home from the Pope in Rome
where they got their Easter blessings.

And in some parts of the world, the squirrel replied,
the Great Big Red Easter Squirrel is stealing and hiding and losing the eggs.

And in another world, the hare does not want to give up, I lost a race against
a hedgehog. But I am quite certain he somehow cheated with his wife.

🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿
🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿
🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿🐿

"Streets Of Sorrow / Bromford Six"

Oh farewell you streets of sorrow
Oh 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 Bromford
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

You'll be counting years
First five, then ten
Growing old in a lonely hell
Round the yard and lousy cell
From wall to wall, and back again

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

You'll be counting years
First five, then ten
Growing old in a freezing hell
Round the yard and the lousy cell
From wall and back again

Counting years
First five, then ten
Growing old in a lonely hell
Round the yard and the lousy cell
From wall to wall and back again