They run around in tattered shorts,
They seem like people who have run short,
This is survival, not a sport
Their hearts live in a darkened fort.
They run this part of the town,
To them, a new day is a new go-down,
Yes something always has to go down.
They run, hard-pressed with sacks,
Time is money, pile it in stacks,
You Galatians who bewitched you?
You do it for the stomach, anything to chew.
They don’t spend money on rent,
On the cold pavement, they pitch their tent,
Ooh Galatians…
What’s your fate, Galatians?
Is it tied somehow to this state?
We’re balancing economies of scale,
Do you understand, or are you under a spell?
You can’t feed till your belly swells
Poor Galatian.
I’m writing to Galatians lost in despair,
Drifting through life like they don’t care,
Dreams postponed, hope stripped bare,
Silent cries swallowed in the air.
I’m writing to Galatians, the weary and worn,
Bruised by the battles of nights and dawn,
Resting on benches where dreams are torn,
Waiting for light in a world long gone.
I’m writing to you Galatians, beasts of burden,
You who set out yourselves to harden,
You who sleep on benches of Uhuru Garden,
Lulled by illusions of Eden,
Loud snores, how will you make it to Sweden?
Poor Galatians, your snores wake the bats,
Even crows are shocked by your farts,
You chew leaves like competing goats,
Intoxicated, your moves sudden boats,
Who bewitched you, Galatians?
A hundred kilometres from home,
A hundred kilometres from the norm,
A game of survival victims of con,
Conned of lives, conned of souls,
Conned of freedom to cry foul.
Cursed to stroll, condemned to holes,
Suffering servants with no shoes to their soles
Condemned elements with pitch-black souls…
Ooh Galatians Lord, have mercy on you.
Son of a woman.
Son of a woman
SON OF WOMAN 