Home Not So Sweet Home
My home is number sixteen, situated on Bush2
There are no fancy carpets or no panoramic view.
Just Lino there for flooring and an antique for a bed.
Sure you’re not in the fucking Hilton son, just some place to put your head.
The food wont fill you fully, it will fill a gap or two.
A choice of main or salad, a soup or roll or stew.
The service isn’t with a smile you get a moan or a grunt.
You gonna lay all fucking day you lazy Derry cunt.
Not the smile or welcome that you know from family, friend and kin.
You can like or you can lump it, it’s your crime that put you in.
So stop your fucking greeting and grow a set young Po.
Two years are up the Judge’s, another two to go.
Photos, cards and letters are sent to raise a smile.
They help to keep your spirits up they’re sent from miles and miles.
From sisters, bro’s in England, Scotland and closer too.
There never that far away their hearts are always true.
I’m sixty miles from my place, just a bus or train away.
Until the Governor tells me so, this is the place I’ll stay.
So, heads up son and stand with pride you’ll never walk alone.
Realise it’s just a place, it’s home but not so sweet home.