It seems justice for foul and heinous crime
Changes for some with the passage of time.
It seems that culpability can simply be
Decided by political popularity.
Sinn Fein would feed us that to believe.
Murder is politics, like snot on a sleeve.
And guns and car bombs are the certain price
Of not treating the murderers doubly nice.
Barely veiled threats are the currency
Of the men in the suits they pretend to be.
But you can’t be the clothes upon your back
When the cloth is white and the soul is black.
You can’t be statesmen of appropriate poise
When you clothe yourself with inappropriate noise.
And you can’t hide from truth if the truth will out.
That murder is murder, whatever you shout.