| The vans they come in convoys now, stealing through the dawn |
| Silent in the countryside in the hills up to the north |
| There’s road blocks on the Meden bridge |
| There’s click, click clicking on the phone |
| They’re sealing off our villages, sealing off our homes |
| This ain’t some tin-pot story arriving from a distant shore |
| But our own sweet, green and pleasant land in 1984 |
| Her father crossed the battle lines in the first months of the war |
| She frowns down at the soup kitchen — she doesn’t have a father anymore |
| It’s cold in the early mornings, standing with your mates |
| Staring at the thick blue line armed and ready at the gates |
| This ain’t some tin-pot story arriving from a distant shore |
| But our own sweet, green and pleasant land in 1984 |
| The servants of our great nation |
| Have lied in the name of us all |
| While the officers of peace and order |
| Are busy breaking every law |
| There’s hundreds on trumped-up charges |
| Hundreds on the streets |
| The future of our villages |
| Sown with bitter seeds |
| And hatred starts to rumble where there was no hate before |
| In our own sweet green and pleasant land in 1984 |
| Nobody wanted to see the blood |
| As the blue lights flash through in the night |
| But all the words fell on deaf ears |
| And now the blind frustration bites |
| Two nations under one crown divided more and more |
| In our own sweet green and pleasant land in 1984 |