- A bullet for infection, a hundred twelve injections.
- Stop the spread with dozens dead, four months till my election.
- McBuffalo the traitor now opposite of labour;
- The boss in bed with platinum head, we’ve lost our arbitrator.
- We have 500 rand, but billions in his hands.
- Each day we dig for dirty pigs deep under desert sand.
- We work, and bleed, and sweat to pay our hungry debt.
- So tired now, collective vow to make the mountain trek.
- With patience we sit waiting, our roof and bed dictating
- Protection feigned, they try in vain our weapons confiscating.
- Green blanket calls dismount from off the mighty mount
- Thousands strong now join the throng towards the body count.
- Spears clapping and just singing, their chants in valley ringing.
- Box them in! We’re going to win! Let’s start the tear gas flinging!
- First seventeen are dying. The scene now horrifying.
- They’re on the run; the hunt’s begun. We’ve doubled bodies lying.
- It’s just like 1960—well, maybe not so swiftly.
- It’s not the cracks, this time it’s black, and certainly more grisly.
- “Cease fire,” yell the bosses. Too late to stop the losses.
- Medics barred. No badges charged. See all the wooden crosses.
- Two seventy arrested of those who had protested
- A murder charge, but they just marched. The system is infested.
- Marikana had backfired, four weeks they did inspire:
- A hundred grand did take a stand, each worker filled with fire.
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