Скачать или смотреть Yom the poet - 3rd World Patriots (Official Video)

Here we are, beautiful brains hanging from weakened branches of this plenty fruit drained third world country caught in a tree of first class pressures, constantly we second guess the straightness of ruling authority till it is deemed normal to wander along unchartered paths towards unconfirmed hopes for our survival.
We are economic nomads our movement restricted by unfriendly terrain obstacles to which these regular norms add.
Our world is named Mensah, the term independence be in the mould of Ananse story mere fiction against these chains of cholera, tolerance preached to quell the rants of the people by a peace seeking clergy clearly lacking in synergy with the symmetrics of their own religion.

They ask us to swallow a small lie to satisfy a greater good yet as we let sleeping dogs lie our home turns to a greater hood.
All i see is descendants of ancient empires turned aben wor ha minded, disregarding policy at the prospect of pouring cedi steady dancing to soundtracks from lumba.
That which was touted undoubted as Nkrumah's truth has been progressively suppressed by a congress of the mediocre making joker of young heads born with the strong urge to purge themselves and country of false ends, our values of dignity and honour have been unfairly veiled behind the curtain of fairytale.


For here we always de win bronze, a gold digging police force mock us with a prime fixation on protecting their own pockets parading around like hawkers selling a peaceful alternative to harassment immune to embarrassment burning deep into their moral fibres till the embers are far spent, my country majority lack amenities poor souls its a lopsided system arthos, aramis lacking porthos, more potholes than bore holes unright roads minus light poles my country and progress remain like poles.
Sunday collection boxes filled by a congregation of empty stomachs prophets profit of the piss poor from the pulpit our women turned puppets of the jigsaw from these culprits and the bulk of our politicians held hands danced and skipped on their way to ancestral grave yards they took turns hurling spittle at tombstone after tombstone, wide eyed children unsure what to make of these double standards he stands at the rally an ally but I lied appears to hide behind the gibberish after he's given the wish of a victory mile high, meanwhile high ranking professors and scientists sigh and sit helpless at the actions of a reckless hierarchy of which their own inaction helped bless; Anarchy!

Down here our tears are taken for granted taking loans and grants that do little to aid kojo the village boy achieve for the sake of grandad.
Third rock living third avenue dwelling cradle of able bodied men with nothing but breath to their name, left with the only option of mixing their oxygen with gin.

My origin can only be traced from this country born of the third world, as citizens we are no better sitting in bitter banter awaiting our bread buttered, buttressed in ignorance but dressed as Africans.

Chale this place I speak off consists of peacock proud dreadlocked Sherlocks broken clocks locked in frozen thought that the ship of change can only dock when channeled on the wave of chanting down babylon yet Babylon remains erect and undented by the jabs of those that choose to cling to the excuse of oppression.


Dimensionless third world country with the majesty of mind undermined by the mantra I have to land mine, explosively selfish greed on a quest to replace frown, I live on the shanty town outskirts of a first world society amongst inward looking individuals cooking hidden visuals of grandeur, the allure of village championship corrupting craftsmanship till men once counted fit end up counterfit.

Third avenue resident house number 1957 family, our neighbours laid bare butchered body parts of their kin till they attained infamy as such we remain the sole stable family on the block, swollen headed and profusely pompous in a peace that only exists as a result of our collective inability to be aggressive past insult, for that we thank Jehovah. They ask us to be grateful for the luxury of this palpable peace but how long before those that senselessly suffer are ready to forfeit said peace to be rid of the stench of a psychological genocide. My country.