On one cold and bitter Thursday in Munich, Germany,
Eight great football stalwarts conceded victory,
Eight men who will never play again who met [bad word] there,
The flowers of British football, the flowers of Manchester

Matt Busby's boys were flying, returning from Belgrade,
This great United family, all masters of their trade,
The Pilot of the aircraft, the skipper Captain Thain,
Three times they tried to take off and twice returned back again.

The third time down [bad word] disaster followed close,
There was a slush upon [bad word] and the aircraft never rose,
It ploughed into the marshy, it broke, it overturned.
And eight of the team were killed when the blazing wreckage burned.

Roger Byrne and Tommy Taylor who were capped for England's side.
And Ireland's Billy Whelan and England's Geoff Bent died,
Mark Jones and Eddie colman, and David Pegg also,
they lost their lives as it ploughed on through the snow.

Big Duncan he went to, with an injury to his frame,
And Ireland's brave Jack Blanchflower will never play again,
The great Sir Matt Busby lay there, the father of his team
Three long months passed by before he walked again.

The trainer, coach and secretary, and a member of the crew,
Also eight sporting journalists who with United flew,
and one of them Big Swifty, who we'll ne'er forget,
the finest English 'keeper that ever graced the net.

Oh, England's finest football team its record [bad word] great,
its proud successes mocked by a [bad word] turn of fate.
Eight men will never play again, who met [bad word] there,
the flowers of English football, the flowers of Manchester