In the shit house, a shotgun
Praying hands hold me down
If only the hunter was hunted
In this tin can town,
No stars in the black sky
Looks like the sky fall down,
No sun in the daylight
Looks like it's chained to the ground....chained to the ground
The warden says,
"The exit is sold,"
If you want a way out - Silver and Gold.
Silver and Gold.
Broken back to the ceiling
Broken nose to the floor
I scream at the silence
That crawls under the door (under the floor).
There's a rope around my neck
There's a trigger in your gun
Jesus say something!
I am someone!
I see the coming and the going
The captains and the kings
Their navy blue uniforms
Them bright and shiny things
Yes, captains and kings in the slave ships hold
They came to collect
Silver and Gold
Silver and Gold
The temperature is rising
The fever white hot
Mister I ain't got nothing
But it's more that you've got.
These chains no longer bind me
Nor the shackles at my feet
Outside are the prisoners
Inside the free (set them free).
A prize fighter in a corner is told
Hit where it hurts - For Silver and Gold
Silver and Gold.
(said)
Yup; Silver and Gold.
This song was written in a hotel room in New York City round about the time a friend of ours, Little Steven, was putting together a record of artists against apartheid.
It's a song written about a man in a shantytown outside of Johannesburg; a man who's sick of looking down the barrel of white South Africa; a man who is at the point where he is ready
to take up arms against his oppressor.
A man who has lost faith in the peacemakers of the West, while they argue, and fail to support a man like Bishop Tutu and his request for economic sanctions against South Africa.
Am I bugging you?
I don't mean to bug you.
Okay, Edge, play the blues...
[You can stop the world from turning round.
You just gotta pay a penny in the pound.]
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