By Paul Morris:
A sign was raised, in trembling hands,
A simple plea across the lands.
A man who lived, who loved, who cared,
A voice of truth, his soul laid bare.
Peter Lynch, a name, a face,
Now lost within the coldest place.
Behind those bars, a heart did break,
For speaking out, for justice’s sake.
A riot stirred, and anger blazed,
Outside the hotel, unrest raised.
Illegal migrants housed inside,
While townsfolk’s fears were pushed aside.
But in that fight, our souls are torn,
Our land, divided, lost, and worn.
And Peter stood, with sign in hand,
To question what they’d done to our land.
Yet now he sleeps, beneath the clay,
A life cut short, taken away.
A grandfather, no more to see
The children laughing by the sea.
The government, with iron fist,
Has blood upon their hands, we list.
A man who only sought to say,
“Is this the way? Is this the way?”
Injustice reigns, while we grow cold,
Our nation’s heart, no longer bold.
So let us think, let us arise,
And see the truth behind their lies.
For Peter Lynch, in death he calls,
To those who walk within these walls.
Our England bleeds, from deep within,
We must stand up, we must begin.
No man should die for raising voice,
Injustice thrives when we’ve no choice.
So fight we must, for what is right,
Before the day turns into night.
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