| It’s been a long dry season in tinderbox town
|
| And the ghetto cars go cruising up and down and round and round
|
| With tinted windows and the screech of tires
|
| Poverty likes to ride in the best disguise
|
| The boys get bored, set fire to the sheds at the end of my street
|
| The thick black smoke rises up into the dusk
|
| Sirens scream out across the hills
|
| Turn into the close as the boys all swagger
|
| I’ve got no quarrel with you brother
|
| But the war is getting closer
|
| Down at the Union there we stood
|
| And embraced like brothers should
|
| The fire catches when your back is turned
|
| And now we watch as the city burns
|
| And now we watch as the city burns
|
| We used to joke about the colour of our skins
|
| We used to joke about the names of God
|
| But now the racist cops come round
|
| Put your cousin up against the wall
|
| A little crowd gathers round and takes up sides
|
| The white trash come out of their doorways and mutter
|
| There’s a macho stand off with sullen faces all around
|
| And all the middle ground is washing away
|
| And no one really wants it there anyway
|
| It’s a time of pack dogs brother
|
| And the war’s getting closer
|
| Down at the Union there we stood
|
| And embraced like brothers should
|
| The fire catches when your back is turned
|
| And now we watch as the city burns
|
| And now we watch as the city burns
|
| And I, I accuse you, you want so much
|
| But you give nothing of yourself
|
| And I, I believe you, you want so much
|
| But you keep nothing of yourself |