- cifra
I get up in the morning slaving for bread sir,
So that every mouth can be fed,
Poor me, Israelites.
Mi wife an' ma kids they pack up an'a leave me,
"darling" she said "I was yours to be seen",
Poor me, Israelites.
Shirt them a-tear up, trousers is gone
I don't want to end up like Bonny and Clyde,
Poor me, Israelites.
After a storm there must be a calming,
You catch me in your farm you sound your alarm,
Poor me, Israelites.
