The wasted years of our uncivil war
Continue as we fight for toilet rolls
All too soon will come the blood and gore
The bulls escape,we trained no matadors
Tins of soup and packets of dried meat
Fly from shelves to baskets as we queue
Fear has grasped our throats with its deceit
The faces of the old are turning blue
Still there is a palace on the hill
A forest where the princes ride each day
Doused by rumour,fear that watchers kill
What worth is there in turning now to prayer?
Stupid and corrupt we miss our lives
Our children cry, our heartfelt anguish writhes
How my heart sings 