Brett Lock & Leon Lazarus
“They’re not police,” I heard him say,
“They’re men of guitar, they’re okay,” he said.
Is it the skin? Is it the car?
If they want to kill us, we’ll have to drive far, get away.
Every time I’m in this town
I see the hate, it brings me down
But I hear drums!
I hear drums!
The future’s bleak and the past is dead.
Sirens and screaming fill my head.
Her son’s been stabbed, she’s seventy-five,
the shebeen turned on him, and she’s still alive, so sad.
But no one cries. It was the third that night.
The ambulance took him. Just another fight, too bad.
Just a bed and a stove, no windows here.
The air is stale, the cupboard’s bare, no food.
You can try to be human, and lose it bit by bit
to flies on a donkey carcass, and the smell of shit.
Hope on his knees. Hope struggles and stands.
And life goes on while there’s strength in his hands, still strength.