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Dead are the pure days, when colour wasn’t the issue
When food and culture, before the moral punctures
Before came predators to hunt, and scavenging vultures
To make a rudiment of, our own footpaths by tortures

Dead are the pure days, when bitter blue gum was sweet
When the pocornized maize, and sleepover meals served
When dressed potato sweet, and friendly liquor was neat
Before the rudiment of, our own walkways by torture 

Dead are the pure days, when our affordable league
Meant to laugh and smile, and not betting EPL to cry
As we hit nylon paper balls, and chuckled under the fig
Before the rudiments of, our own pathways by torture

Dead are the pure days, when on the swaying ropes
We took flights without, necessary tickets in thickets
As they pushed to swing, the rope we giggled
Before the rudiments of, our own alleys by torture

Time to think time to resurrect, the dead fortunate
With bitter long term experience, breathe life in nostrils
Let the past speak to us, let the light beat the darkness
For the rudiments of, our culture mimic extinction

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