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...
|
|
-----------------
|
Where is Home?
|
| Bloc Party |
