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After the funeral, breaking cola nuts |
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We sit and reminisce about the past |
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And in her voice, only sadness |
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Her only son taken from her |
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In every headline we are reminded |
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That this is not home for us |
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In every headline we are reminded |
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That this is not home for us |
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The second generation blues |
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Our points of view not listened to |
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Different worlds and different rules |
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A question of allegiance |
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Clinging to her Bible and her scapular |
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And the memory of the way things were |
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I don't see hope, I cannot smile |
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I burn with anger all the time |
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We all read what they did to the black boy |
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In every headline we are reminded |
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That this is not home for us |
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Where is it? Where is home? |
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Where is it? Where is home? |
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I'll walk this modern tightrope |
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Of humility and belligerence |
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This tommyrot and flag waving |
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Is getting me down |
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I want to stamp on the face of every young policeman |
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To break the fingers of every old judge |
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To cut off the feet of every ballerina |
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But I can't |
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So I just sigh and I just sulk |
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And I pretend that there's nothing wrong |
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The teeth of this world tear me in half |
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And everyday I must ask myself |
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Where, where, where |
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Where is it? Where is home? |
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Where is it? Where is home? |
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In every headline we are reminded |
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That this is not home for us |
|
In every headline we are reminded |
|
That this is not home for us |
