Template:Tramp The Dirt Down

I saw a newspaper picture from the political campaign

A woman was kissing a child, who was obviously in pain

She spills with compassion, as that young child's face in her hands she grips

Can you imagine all that greed and avarice coming down on that child's lips?

Well I hope I don't die too soon, I pray the Lord my soul to save

Yes, I'll be a good boy, I'm trying so hard to behave

Because there's one thing I know, I'd like to live long enough to savour

That's when they finally put you in the ground

I'll stand on your grave and tramp the dirt down

When England was the whore of the world, Margaret was her madam

And the future looked as bright and as clear as the black tarmacadam

Well I hope that she sleeps well at night, isn't haunted by every tiny detail

When she held that lovely face in her hands all she thought of was betrayal

And now the cynical ones say that it all ends the same in the long run

Try telling that to the desperate father who just squeezed the life from his only son

And how it's only voices in your head and dreams you never dreamt

Try telling him the subtle difference between justice and contempt

Try telling me she isn't angry with this pitiful discontent

When they flaunt it in your face as you line up for punishment

And then expect you to say "Thank you", straighten up, look proud and pleased

Because you've only got the symptoms, you haven't got the whole disease

Just like a schoolboy, whose head's like a tin-can

Filled up with dreams then poured down the drain

Try telling that to the boys on both sides, being blown to bits or beaten and maimed

Who takes all the glory but none of the shame?

Well I hope you live long now, I pray the Lord your soul to keep

I think I'll be going before we fold our arms and start to weep

I never thought for a moment that human life could be so cheap

But when they finally put you in the ground

They'll stand there laughing and tramp the dirt down

Alternate lyrics performed 1991-08-03 in Thurles, Ireland:

When England was the whore of the world, Margaret was her madam

And the future looked as bright and as clear as the black tarmacadam

And if she seemed bulletproof I put it down to black magic

Every day now we're invited to pity the tragic

Forlorn faded figure whose story's on sale

As she finally swallows the fine bitter flavour that she likes to think is betrayal

While I pity those who forgot and forgave

I believe she should be hounded down into her grave

Along with the glove puppet that they put in her place

The simpering chump with the whimpering face

And whose classless society we all might applaud

On the day he gets round to shutting down the House of Lords

And kicking the royal cuckoos out of the nest

And placing the Queen Mother under arrest