If this beloved nation could pull up its socks
Instead of settling for driving cabs
We’d all have thriving vocabs
We’d all be poets
With words bound together with rope
Hanging from our eager tongues
Oh how the politicians look forward to that
Saying to see it materialise, they’d give none
Of their easily earned money
While the everyday worker-through bleeding-earns money
While the Izikhothane succeedingly burns money;
Spitting in our faces;
Saying: “At the money table there’s no more places”
Why does hard work hardly amount to money?
While easy work easily amounts to money-

Cold hard money
Excuse the poor man’s vocab,
I mean cold hard cash
We’ve taken this whole sit on our ass
And wait for Zuma so far,
We’ve got a rash
By backseat driver mentalities
Instead of ourselves taking the reigns
I’m sick and tired of a backward society
Where we say when it pours it rains
I ask you to pause for a second
And reclaim your African brain