The Europa hotel got tired of being bombed,
And every other shop in Belfast is a hairdresser,
Seems people like themselves to be combed,
As their fears grow lesser and lesser.

Philip, who has fought the war previously,
Blames those who used his naivete so viciously,
He regrets the fight, the prison, and the slaughters,
And now cares only about his teenage daughters.

Sandy row is the unionists’ stronghold,
With pavements in the colors of the flag,
Only there, does history seem to lag,
Where everywhere else it picked up, so I’m told.

Murals with names of the dead are now tourist spots,
Soon to be torn down to make way for parking lots,
Family names still matter to connect the dots,
To know if Protestant or Catholic, to tie some knots.

Some just hang on to the past, for it all what they know,
With no one to show them the future, and the way to go,
Stuck with the “Apprentice Boys of Derry” and the “orangemen” march,
Oblivious that peace can come anytime, and not only in April or March.