After the funeral, breaking cola nuts
We sit and reminisce, about the past
and in her voice, only sadness
her only son, taken from her...
In every headline, we are, reminded, that this is not home, for us...
In every headline, we are, reminded, that this is not home, for us...
Second generation blues, our points of view not listened to
Different worlds and different rules, a question of allegiance.
Clinging to her bible and her scapular, and the memory of the way things were,
I don't see hope, I cannot smile, I burn with anger all the time.
We all read,
What they did,
To the black,
Boy.
In every headline we are reminded that this is not home for us
Where is it?
Where is home?
Where is it?
Where is home?
I walk this modern tightrope of humility and belligerence,
this tommy-rot and flag-waving is getting, me down.
I want to stamp on the face of every young policeman,
to break the fingers of every old judge,
to cut off the feet of every ballerina,
But I can't
So I decide,
and I just sigh,
and I pretend, that there’s nothing wrong.
The teeth of this world, tear me in half, and every day I must ask myself, where, where, where...
Where is it?
Where is home?
Where is it?
Where is home?
In every headline, we are, reminded, that this is not home, for us...
In every headline, we are, reminded, that this is not home, for us...
Paroles2Chansons dispose d’un accord de licence de paroles de chansons avec la Société des Editeurs et Auteurs de Musique (SEAM)
