Night Steppa

Lyrics

In the last hours before the faded grey of daylight A bassline is sobbing under a fat faced, acned moon And soon the godly and god-fearing shall be swearing to a cross Christ Shouting and screaming ululations like grieving woman lacerating the air Praising, praying and pleading for ease from lives adorned by rows and the will of rusty guns Their sun [?] face to show the screen As the last [?] living [?] honour the dead with eyes swollen to a torrent of tears Later, they'll roam the star-spangled no frills aisle Chickenshit and wishbones Popping a pill full of discount coupons and dreams Trying to buy a stroke of [?] respect and some penicillin for the spirit See how mothers ladle big bowls of rice and savoury goat stew While the men pass bottles of fiery, unrefined rum And their children's babies are hushed by mother's milk and pale grey skies Survival is a full-time job A lifetime career to most She's only people between pauses and feeding twisting baby [?] of hair Smiles mingle with sadness He resembled his father in his shifting eye Grandma reads a story Daughter needs a rest Her clothes like loose skin and bone, she hoped she'd see his father soon Her options dwindle like her weight Meanwhile on neon [?] streets The young father grinds his serrated teeth like locusts He's got a magic manhood, hates life and all things true He caresses his fingers on his gun, and rides the wings of fickle whinge through the punk [?] sinews of the city Face to face with wooden guns and iron will He's whistling giving the breeze a tune Denizen of the night Every sense alert as the air is thick with mist Making figures into ghosts The impression ain't worse than hard time But he needs money Bullets explode with white fury and the full moon looks like a tunnel A way to escape Lying on his back Confronted by the city's face He wishes he could see his son again And in the last hours before the faded grey of daylight A bassline is sobbing under a fat faced, acned moon