Queues, you can list them, sugar, cash,
Corn for bread, corn for sadzo, tins,
Two kids selling shares in their own future.
A people, sold, starved, bartered. For the hope
Of what, ending Bob? And we?
Grey box-text, printed slantwise
The student leaders hiring vans
For the marches where others will be beaten.
A thin line of red hope,
Or a girl eating dust in the streets?
I'm sorry Christopher, but you can't speak
Or write, for toffee.
If I must endure just one more meeting
In which you tell me that this
Is the last and definitely and
Point before you sum up;
I will have to shoot you.
Kelly - Due South
The first time you kissed a girl
Joy rushed to your head
Blood to the tips of your toes
Vivid, everything was vivid
Your straight hair curled
Even your knees blushed.
You wanted to turn yourself into a ball
You wanted to throw yourself in the air
How could anything be so good?
And what was true now?
Thirty weeks since Feb 15
I miss the taste of Mecca Cola
I miss the warmth of her on my arm
I miss the rumours of our numbers
Half a million, a million, more
I miss the tea-drinkers, archaeologists
The stilt-walkers against war.
What brought the people to the streets?
Why did the movement go?
Where will the crowd return?
When will we win?