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Turning White Into Black

Deep inside their strong stubborn skulls,

and ev’n in their glitt’ring eyeballs,

they really know that black is black,

no way white will be black –

ev’n when they attempt to burn it to black,

its ashes cannot be black but grey.

But for the thirty silv’rs they want to receive,

they, from their basket mouths that can nev’r

hold on a dropp of wat’r,

say that white is not white but dark black.

Lies are now their Messiah here,

and their odour are their John, the forerunner;

Justice but their Israelites in Egypt!

Their hands are cloth’d with mess,

making all their body smell shit, shit of lies:

in the scept’r, it is there;

in the cross, it is there,

not ev’n our homes are spar’d of this mess.

They know that white is white,

for their eyes are not blind;

neith’r are they, themselves, confus’d,

but their greedy mouths have made it so,

turning justice to injustice!

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