If you’re in the UDA and you’re fighting for your people,
And you’re shouting ‘No surrender!’ from every loyal steeple;
If your name demands respect and a little fear to boot,
Try not to get battered with a shiny Orange flute.
When you’re listening to the bands and your old heart fills with pride,
When you raise a glass to Ulster and you’re proud and teary-eyed,
Always please remember as you puff on your cheroot,
No UDA godfather should suffer GBH by flute.
If things look bleak and hopeless and you’re well down on your luck,
And you’re afraid to cross the road in case you get hit by a truck,
Before your sense of hopelessness takes firm and permanent root,
Remind yourself at least you didn’t get knocked out by a flute.
For we’re proud that we’re all Protestants and we have each other’s back,
And we’re standing firm together underneath our union Jack.
Our devotion to the union is pure and absolute,
Unless some shameless Lundy dirty-Joes us with a flute.
The tattoo of the Lambeg drum beats out from land to sea,
The accordion’s sweet and plaintive wheeze means the world to me;
But the surest thing about the bands that no-one can refute,
Is that no loyal son of Carson should get his clock cleaned with a flute.
I’ve been shot at by the IRA and bombed out of my home,
I’ve been hunted, jailed and beaten for standing up to Rome,
But the sorest blow I ever felt, I say without dispute,
Was the day that I fell out with the wrong end of a
flute.
The border’s in the Irish Sea and the government’s in the Ra,
There’s Gaelic on the street signs and my Tranny ma’s my da;
There’s two-tiers in policing and they took my traditional route,
And my tattooed, loyal, baldy head’s got a dent shaped like a flute.
