“Billy, in one of his nice new sashes,
Fell in the fire and was burnt to ashes;
Now, although the room grows chilly,
I haven't the heart to poke poor Billy.”

“He was now in that state of fire that she loved. She wanted to be burnt.”

“The only people that ever made a difference to Billy were the Provos, and they were cunts as well. Ah've no illusions aboot them as freedom fighters. The bastards made ma brar intae a pile ay cat food. But they jist pulled the switch. His death was concieved of by these Orange cunts, comin through every July with thir sashes and flutes, fillin Billy's stupid head with nonsense aboot crown and country and aw that garbage. They'll go home chuffed fae the day. They kin tell aw thir mates aboot how one ay the family died, murdered by the IRA, while defending Ulster. It'll fuel thir pointless anger, get them bought drinks in pubs, and help establish their doss-bastard credibility wi other sectarian arseholes.”

“You haven't broken his heart yet, have you?"
"No," Tessa said."I haven't broken his heart at all.”

“I don't really need to stand out, there's room for everyone. Although I haven't built a niche yet, I'm just writing love songs.”

“My heart is like the failing hearth
Now by my side,
One by one its bursts of flame
Have burnt and died.”

“We have room for the man with an honest dream,
With his heart on fire and his eyes agleam;
We have room for the man with a purpose true,
Who comes to our shores to start life anew,
But we haven't an inch of space for him
Who comes to plot against life and limb.
We have room for the man who will learn our ways,
Who will stand by our Flag in its troubled days;
We have room for the man who will till the soil,
Who will give his hands to a fair day's toil,
But we haven't an inch of space to spare
For the breeder of hatred and black despair.”

“I will rise again, a foe, fierce, bold,
Though dead, though slain, though burnt to ashes cold.”

“I can't grow a new heart.”

“I am ashes where once I was fire…”