Category: I’m Proud Of You Too, Da

Fourteen in the Seventies
Little big and strange feelin’s
We’re either men or soon to be dead sons meant to be men
And we refuse to feel afraid again

Our hands stink of steel and our guns sweat like skin
Yeah we have them, don’t use them

Not nothin’ to anybody
I’m not nothin’ to anybody
Can’t you see I’m here?
Can’t you hear me here?
Black in the dark, “that’s it – I’m fucked forever now”
Gunshot shouts loud
You heard that

We never stood a chance
No we never stood a chance
They stamped our heads and doused ink on our hands
“Assimilate to the new world!” goes the chant
“Breathe at the bottom
Die young, get slaughtered.
Welcome to the new world – we all love it.”

Loveless this way, but to our dear ma’s, they never failed us
But to exist between worlds with different rules is dangerous
Forgive us for fightin’ for life, despite the dynamic concept of wrong or right

Not nothin’ to anybody
Not nothin’ to anybody
Can’t you see me here?
Hear me here;

Ripped a shot in the dark, that’s it – I’m fucked forever now
Caught with only ink on my hands
A warning crack fuck sake stay the fuck away from me, from my family
And just like that

Man-to-man, that’s it – I’m fucked forever now
We never stood a chance
You know me, brother
You know my head
My name’s always been scribed on the bars of prison cells
It’s this or it’s death

And after the arrest, he was never free again
I knew him all me life – if he was ever free –
I don’t know when

I remember you
I would have killed myself too
Better yet
I would have killed that man in that bedroom
For what he did to you

But there’s nobody else to remember you
Nobody that cares about you
Not even I do

Don’t hate me for that
How could I possibly hold onto the fact
I got given a different room
In an abandoned house we as kids slipped into

We all ran
To God, we all ran
When the upstairs door banged
And we heard, and now understand
How hard
How hair-quiveringly hard
A little boy can scream

Forgive us for that
A boy will only fear a man
And to survive, which we had to do
We had to detach from the horror of what happened to you

Barry died in a bedroom
Swinging on a fist sized noose
A poor nipper, no hidden talent no new-world thinker
All he had was time
And all I remember was that he was a good goal-kicker

Nobody cares about you
I could never bring myself to
I didn’t have the heart to

But
One day, my son might write a poem about you
To immortalise you
The least I can do

I remember you, Barry
I care about you, Barry
You deserved better, Barry