Even when a cone was all that shielded our manhood,
We stand on mountain tops and blitz through the storms,
Only that they’re wild enough to be good,
For we know how to make nature bow to our norms,

We stand on mountain tops and blitz through the storms.
Tonight the gods are on our side,
For we know how to make nature bow to our norms.
But what have we to offer them now that we’re on the other side?

Tonight the gods are on our side.
The pikus spirits are burning our houses down,
But what have we to offer them now that we’re on the other side?
Is it enough to cast our graduation gowns?

The pikus spirits are burning our houses down,
While our fathers and mothers are sacrificing coconuts for copra.
Is it enough to cast our graduation gowns
At the feet of Shakespeare and Santa?

While our fathers and mothers are sacrificing coconuts for copra,
We run around scrambling for coloured sticks
At the feet of Shakespeare and Santa.
We read of the queer thing called romance and politics.

We run around scrambling for coloured sticks
To fight over birthright on white books.
We read of the queer thing called romance and politics,
Then sell our innocence for upgraded looks.

To fight over birthright on white books
Is the religion of the wise.
Then sell our innocence for upgraded looks
— The altar is burning without a sacrifice.

Is the religion of the wise
That which we find among our dying pupus?
The altar is burning without a sacrifice.
Who will appease the spirits of our shoes?

That which we find among our dying pupus
Are the remnants of our past.
Who will appease the spirits of our shoes?
Who will quench our lust?

Are the remnants of our past
Captured in the frowns on our faces?
Who will appease the spirits of our shoes
When our places become empty spaces?

Captured in the frowns on our faces,
There are masks we wear to hide our fears.
When our places become empty spaces,
Strange faces emerge from the depths of our tears.

There are masks we wear to hide our fears;
Some blue, some pink, some purple, but none ordinary.
Strange faces emerge from the depths of our tears.
The faith of our fathers is branded “sinful sophistry”.

Some blue, some pink, some purple, but none ordinary;
These are the clouds we want over our heads.
The faith of our fathers is branded “sinful sophistry”,
And to be civilized we must make dead what’s been long dead.

These are the clouds we want over our heads:
A politician’s premium paunch, a pastor’s polemic, and a prostitute’s poster.
And to be civilized we must make dead what’s been long dead:
Our war dances, the strains of our mothers, and the rants of the philosophaster.

A politician’s premium paunch, a pastor’s polemic, and a prostitute’s poster:
The three things that make us more white than the white.
Our war dances, the strains of our mothers, and the rants of the philosophaster;
Their darker shades have no place in the light.

The three things that make us more white than the white,
We pile them on our desks wondering why there are more trophies than carvings on our shelves.
Their darker shades have no place in the light.
We throw them away, for we’d rather be executive entrepreneurs than exotic elves.

We pile them on our desks wondering why there are more trophies than carvings on our shelves.
How in painting our faces have we denied ourselves!
We throw them away, for we’d rather be executive entrepreneurs than exotic elves.
We could’ve been different had we not been too hard on ourselves.