When our names were smeared
with dust and kicked
butt-naked into the streets
tramped upon, squashed by dancers
revelling on the song of our shame
We take all in saintly fate

Poverty has diverse chairs
all which are glued
to the heart of hell
upon which we sit
pipped with jears
Our pains for the tithe
we never paid
untill our lives are almost spent

We aren't bearing with us
our sack of shame to the land
were we shall endly rest
Laugh not out of you breathe
we shall mend our broken past
and pick up the moon we left behind