I really think
that it is just a sin.
That when there is trouble
The Big Boys join in.

They all come across
saying that they'll make a change
and then somebodys World
they will then rearange.

The US and Russia
along with us Brits
don't want it that way
so we blow it to bits.

We give guns to him,
supply arms to another.
Then we sit back and watch
as Brother kills Brother.

Who are we to guide?
Who are we to preach.
When we cling on to their assets
like a blood ******* leach.

We should leave others alone
till our own house is done,
yet we watch as our schools
become run by the gun.

Where now it's the norm
to be shot as we learn,
just as long as big commerce
is able to earn.

Those who should know better
don't know how to behave
Happy to see
another Child in a Grave.

So you Big Boys go elsewhere
because it's well known
that if you come to play
you come armed with a Drone.

While you're sitting back
comfy in your armchair.
You can relentlessly ****
from a place that's not there.

Then when you pull the plug
and remove your devices
we are faced with a problem
of people making bad choices.

We have made problems worse!
We have let people down
and when we get a world crisis
we'll react with a frown.

We don't want them here.
They cannot go there.
A whole host of humanity
who is welcome Nowhere.

We created this problem!
We created this way.
So in the future
keep The Big Boys away.

she may hurt, but she is not pain.
she may fail, but she is not a failure.
she may be tragic, but she is not tragedy.

*she may feel worthless,
but this, too, will pass.

Beat the rhythm
empty hand,
Iron cast chains
rattles command.

Ol' Boss Hogg,
baton raised
Self righteous fool
has need of praise.

In order that
he gain acclaim,
thinks with hate,
acts with shame.

Human beings,
commodity,
ships hold stacked
with those once free.

Bodies piled
upon high
you will not see
the strong ones die.

Scars embedded
on their backs
chained and shackled
to the racks.

We deal in branded
breathing stock,
Unload black vassal
from our docks.

Beat the rhythm
empty hands.
Iron cast chains
in far off lands.

We keep our skivvy,
wired hair blacks.
We work them hard,
we score their backs.

They do for us,
they work the field.
Grow the cotton,
pick the yield.

Keep the body,
take the mind.
Labour whatever's
left behind.

And if demeanour
does ever flinch.
We'll introduce you
Willie Lynch.

Beat the rhythm.
Empty hands
Iron cast chains.
Unfair demands.

Beat the rhythm,
shackled feet.
We take their worst
but can't be beat.

And so here we are
Page after page
Hearts on fire
Exposing parts unseen
Beneath harden surfaces
Wounds unclean
Broken still we dream
On and on we pen
And so we breathe again