We've worked our life to serve a great country,
We've laid down our fortune to worship her,
We've with one eye fought with her enemies,
We've till the land for the country's treasures.
We've work while baboon chop like a fine pig,
We've planted acres and till it ourselves,
We did it for this beloved country;
We gave all, tell me, are we to suffer?
This money, they rob us of this money:
This money belongs to the labourers
who works round the clock yet their kindred starves,
This money belongs to those millions of
middle-class people who receive their own
salaries late but their tax 's deduct'd first.
This money belongs to the poor people
who starts their life in a shanty and ends
it there like a bird from it nest, and back!
This money belongs to widows, mothers,
sisters, whose men laid down their lives for her!
This money shouldn't be in bank but in
their pockets and country's account. But no!
This money is save with thieves and looters,
This money, our money, and this money
is the root of our root, we're nothing but
leaves that rustle at summer and like twigs
blown off at winter with the mighty waves.
What do we have that never ends? Lifetime
is just a deck of card, it falls and falls.
The poor works hard and eat like pigs! They eat
like Lazarus, feeding on crumbs from rich
man's table. What need is the needless crime?
The heart is on the left, but it's e'er right.
Even after years of being crowned a King
the palm wine tapper won't cease gazing at
the palm tree in a sweet sour memory.
When will these anuses 'broad come back home?
"words from the innocent mind"