My funeral is a live cremation
My home is a burnt out tower
My plight is that of a nation
One of selfish gits wielding power

I am a ghost haunting the streets
My home is your left or right wing tv show
My place is within the gentrification scheme
Lost somewhere I don't know

I raise my voice to be silenced
My concerns are shit on the heel of your shoe
There's money in death and violence
Nothing you would prevent if you can choose

Burnt alive, missing, presumed dead
Or never to return home
How you love rinsing your hands of plebs
Murderer of numbers unknown