Marching down my street
Right past my own church
You beat your drums of hate
Until your hands burst
And the route you take through my neighbourhood
Is a well planned route
Baying for some blood,
Woh some blood.
You could march down your own streets,
But that’s now what you want
There’s no point in that
You need someone to taunt
And the hate they feel
Is beaten into them
From their infancy,
Drummed and drummed again
Woh again
I have many friends, who come from your background
But they see through hate and their own voice they’ve
found
Every summertime, we are under siege
Every summertime, it’s the marching season siege
Woh the siege, it’s the marching season siege
Woh the siege, the siege, the siege, the siege
