With milk tins serving as a toy
Wandering around the streets is common
Half naked or only pants on.
Gathering late in the night to watch commando
Jet-li and shaki-shan just like we do call them
Just a calling from your father is a damn.
Moulded in the shape of our legs
With Milk tin we drum with, to form a band
And anything that produces sound even kegs.
Eating the sand through the lower jaw
Creating lamps and light without wire
Making sure it's perfect with no flaw.
When the sky darkens and rumbles
Hoping and praying it will rain with great foy
And when the rain falls, every sadness crumbles.
And running under the scorching sun
Singing loudly and waving to flying aeroplane
Along the hills, valleys and lands so plain.
This is my rugged hood
This is where I tortured
This is where I was nurtured.