Kids take these bullets for your guns,
Girls take a carving knife,
And barricade the doors because they've hit these tender shores
And tell your mother that we love her but we fear that trouble's knocking at our door.
Right-wing broadsheet newspapers can't tell me why they're here,
And there's no hope for your uncle, cos they've lost touch with the West Country,
So be ready with your pistol cos we know that they took Bristol in an hour.
I remember it well, I was ten years old,
The sky was filled, with mustard smoke,
In the wine cellar all spirits were broke,
But I drew pictures of spacemen.
My old man kept hammering nails into the door,
And he was rambling on about helicopters,
Mum did her best making tea for the rest,
Until there was nowhere to piss and we could drink no more and we just waited....
Staring at the blue light of the BBC,
My cartoons were gone, they put re-runs on,
Of Wimbledon, followed by the news at three,
And I wasn't quite sure what was happening,
Or why the gunfire rattled and fell,
But I could see from the sweat on Dermot Murnaghan's brow,
That all was not well, in Blighty.....
