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• Artiste: Slime
• Titre: My Youngest Son
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It's an 800 years never ending war That causes grief, sorrow, suffering and pain - and glory. But glory for who? My youngest son came home today His friends marched with him all the way The flutes and drums beat out the time As in his box of polished pine Like dead meat on a butcher's tray My youngest son came home today. My youngest son was a fine young man With a wife and a daughter and a son As a man he would have lived and died Till by that bullet sanctified Now he's a saint or so they say They brought their saint home today. Above the narrow Belfast streets An Irish sky looks down and weeps On childrens' blood in gutters spilled For dreams of freedom unfilled As part of freedom's price to pay My youngest son came home today. My youngest son came home today His friends marched with him all the way The flutes and drums beat out the time As in his box of polished pine Like dead meat on a butcher's tray My youngest son came home today But this time he's home to stay