Crumbs -

Crumbs from the table have fallen so few

So not to catch an eye

Reckless and thinkless and felled to the knees

To gather before the broom

What is left amongst the spire

That is as tall as the lowest cloud

You could reckon the height of

Hanging on a branch here every time

(though never fell so far)

From which we lift these blistered hands only to curse

The families get nothing but porridge of maize

And shacks at the end of farms

Cash crops commissioned to pay of the debt

And poisoned on the job

What is left amongst the spire

That is as tall as the lowest cloud

You could reckon the height of

Hanging on a branch here every time

(though never fell so far)

From which we lift these blistered hands only to curse

Driving the mules to death in the wheat

Then leaving us follow with leather to eat

Buried their sabers in the field

And sharpen bayonets

Hanging on a branch here every time

(though never fell so far)

From which we lift these blistered hands only to curse