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Those chairmen are in the tower of babel again 
Painting and repainting the future of our land with crooked hands 
Laughing at things as the world pass us by.

Those chairmen are in the tower of babel again 
Writing us messages that have no bloodline.
Although black oil runs in our veins like water of vegetation 
There is a sunstroke in our land.

We dream of cassava songs in the market 
We dream of an open vehicle that could bear the tiredness of our souls but we are at the verge of things.

Our chairmen our flag bearers of fences 
Translators of black dreams with European mirror.

The white house is open for destitutes, kindred of destitutes that are china in African sun.

Those chairmen are in the tower of babel again and there is a sunstroke in our land 
The scorching heat is against banana groves.
Look and see children on a hungry march in the metallic road.

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