Wednesday, 30 April 2014

The Call

From the sweltering heat of oppression
From the ugly seat of racism
From the deep labyrinth of confusion
Let's rise, brother!

At home the broom rests gracefully
Hundred broomsticks bonded together
Like the broom sweeps the dust away
Brother, we shall sweep our foes to death

No more laid down gazes brother
No more bent backs and swollen knees
When the master barks at you
Stand tall brother, roar at him

Tis true say we are Blacks
But ain't we proud of it, brother?
A white man you can be anyday
But once black is lost, its gone forever

Are we not the sons of the Kikuyu?
Did our father's loins breed goats
Haa! The son of a lion dare not eat grass
We must stand up tall and fight

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