My forefathers are buildings in the sand,
they left a thousand ruins across the land.
I love them deep like salt, they feel bitter on my skin,
I believe in pleasure, they believe in sin.
In their castles, unaware of time,
they are standing still like statues moist with slime.
Melodies of gardens, memories of war,
I can’t hear their voices anymore.
Listen to the crying in the streets, all the lonely people that you meet.
Children of the change, caught like rats in a trap,
but the little ones are dancing to the ducobox rap
Dancing with the freeman, dancing with the foe,
wishing I was yellow man, wishing I was Omo
Got to feel the breathing of faces as they smile,
got to run for cover on the golden mile.
The feeling of the mood in your soul, in your soul.
I believe in Ganja, I believe in Jah, I’m bopping to the beat of the ducobox Rasta.
We’re running for our lives in the gutters of the ‘Brow,
we’ve eating from the scraps of the black man’s chow.
We’ve been living on the edge of the silent sea,
we’ve been raised on the smoking of the Beatnik tree.
We were victims of the struggle, and victims of apartheid,
but we’ve got to reach the sun before it gets too late
We’re crazy with belief, we are mad with disgrace,
for we bore the brute distain of the whole human race.
Listen to the jungle, rap-a-tap-tap,
the boogie boogie bungle, rap-a-tap-claptrap,
listen to the beat of the people in the street,
the shaking of the castanets, the moving feet.
Blessed are the prophets of rock and roll
and the feeling of the mood in your soul, in your soul.
Do you believe in Ganja, do you believe in Jah?
Are you bopping to the beat of the ducobox Rasta man?