Monday Morning

Verse 1

Monday morning come, same heavy load,

people walking barefoot 'pon the thorns road.

Glass towers high and the alleyways dark,

everyman a-carry up the cross and mark.

Dem sell we a dream of the great concrete town,

while dem sit back and share out the crown.

Cold-face families with a bloodline down,

Pulling all the strings and shifting their skin,

Writing the rules for the game they always win.

Pre-coro

(Hammond organ floating in)

Hey now, brotherman, look how dem set the trap!

It bigger than poverty, it run the whole map.

Dem control the money, the law and the state,

but the roots run deep and seal up we

It's a concrete jungle, Jah, it heavy and cold!

Where dem buy the future and mortgage the soul.

A handful of master own the whole riverbed,

while the poor man suffer for the table dem fed.

(Roots, rock, reggae! we just wanna live free in our holy ground!)

Verse 2

Names with a shadow nobody speak loud,

drawing up borders to rule over the crowd.

Deciding who eating, who falling behind,

while the system blindfold the whole of mankind.

But down on the corner where the roots beat a-play,

the fire of rebellion nah go fade away.

From the ghetto trenches to the sacred hill,

Lion a-wake up, and we standing still!