Across the grim cobbled streets you stride
Seeming unaware of your obnoxious pride,
Your coat with purple velvet lined
With the money of the cheque you signed.
And yet you know that your gold was made
With the sweat and blood of those afraid
Of, your gold coin fuelled regime.
Perhaps you just don’t understand?
The man you fined owns not one inch of land
And by grasping way his last slither of gold,
His head bows and his corpse grows old
For he knows his end lies on the horizon
With no coin for dry bread to survive on
In your gold coin fuelled regime.
You turn to me as if you have done no wrong?!
The man you fined will die before too long!!
And how many others have you stolen from?
You think that they are those who are in the wrong…
He took your fruit, riches let you accuse,
You take his life, Poverty makes him used
By, your gold coin fuelled regime.