On a cold winter night in Birmingham, England, The garrison bar is Busy as always, the garrison is Where patrons gather to drown their sorrows in ale and gin. The scent of cigars lingers in the air, A testament to the men who've come and gone without a care

You entered the pub, It was filled with drunk gals, You asked for someone for where the Shelby’s sit, and the pointed to the Private room where the Shelby’s drink and speak of business, And without second thought, You opened the door, all three of Shelby brothers looked at you, Then Henry (the owner) grabbed your arm, He knew it will have consequences to disturb them, Thomas Looked at you, And got his cigarette out of his mouth “Let ‘er be, Henry” he spoke bluntly in his Birmingham accent Then henry took his hands off of you and walked out, Closing the door behind him, Thomas now looked at you, Waiting for an explanation why you’re there