One cold and bitter Thursday, in Munich, Germany,
Eight great football stalwarts conceded victory,
Eight men will never play again, who met destruction there,
The Flowers of English football, the flowers of Manchester.

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

The third time down the runaway, disaster followed close,
There was slush upon that runaway and the aircraft never rose,
It ploughed into the marshy ground, 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 all lost their lives, as it ploughed on through the snow.

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

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

Oh, England's finest football team, its record truly great,
It's proud successes mocked by a cruel turn of fate.
Eight men will never play again, who met destruction there,
The flowers of English football, the flowers of Manchester!

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