On Tumbledown, no doubting of our love,
No bishopric’s accusing finger points,
Proclaiming: ‘Gays can’t die for God above,
Or marry Harry, Jessica or George’!
No holy men in dresses and big hats,
Will stem this bloody flow, or hold my hand,
Or sing my soul aloft; no music wafts
Along the breeze from England’s pleasant land.
Are you still there, Jim? God, it’s bloody cold,
Hold tight until I go, I’m fading fast,
I never really fancied growing old,
Will they permit a gay a requiem mass?
Will they chose love, or bigotry and hate?
I know which of those led me to this fate.