Born In A Riddle
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Born in a riddle
Caught in the middle
Return this to sender
It’s not my agenda
They ran with the wounded
The cat and the spoon did
The cow and the fiddle
Went out of their minds
Nobody saw them
But who could ignore them
Who strike from the shadows
These bright fighting lad’ohs
They’ve broken our toys
They’ve ruined our boys
They’ve turned all our dreamers
To plotters and schemers
They’ve taken our playground
And made it their payround
And like every bully
They make us pay fully
Cash for their power
Or blood on the hour
The bills just get higher
And higher and higher
Hooked on the thrilling
Orgasm of killing
They live for the minute
And butcher what’s in it
Faking forgiving
They’re making a living
From all of our sorrows
With all our tomorrows
Those who would lead us
Have nothing to feed us
No beauty, no vision
No change, no mission
How could they save us
Weighed down by old favours?
Their masters are paying
To keep their tunes playing
Don’t say it’s a cancer
For which there’s no answer
The time is a-coming
For stopping the drumming
It won’t be our talents
That strike us the balance
The tide is for turning
The tide is for turning
Born in a riddle,
Caught in the middle
Return this to sender,
It’s not my agenda
Leave me to burrow,
Or plough my own furrow
I don’t need your gun ….
To jump over the moon
Words and Music ©Garvin Crawford
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