Stuck like some handicaps,
Down flat in emptiness of expections,
In a domino,blurry with blind Leods
Is made for a shelter of malevolent vipers.
Where natives are rejected and neglected.

Our children's feed on mucus,
Our wives tie restless wrappers,
Our husbands ashamed of their pockets.
Gathering leaves for twos in our tens,
Now so easy to hear calls to tombs.
Where are our fathers?

Here we are in our heated haven
Where laws are made by statesmen,
To make countymen bury their best
and live in our worst for a pesewa,
When spirits are too broken to trust.

Lost in a trap,lost in our dreams,
Backs on the ground;soul down.
Cobweb of colours in our homes,
Perfumed with dry manure of lack.
Is this all we could achieve?

Stuck not far from birth and
Not close to death,
Had we had this in mind to be murdered of our dreams and that of our children?
Flies on our wounded tongues,
Abandoned by our handmade authority.
This is our finished end.