The winter fights its final demise
And it falls into its final trimester,
The weather warms but he still blows,
The rattling bones of building site fences,
Whistling, jingling in the wind,
And we rejoice and shed our thick coats
As the dark morning'd days come to an end.
As the march hare springs from east
Under the new moons metallic night,
Each morning day restores my faith
As, in righteous belief, the Kemet people fight.
All men must follow suit
For us all to ever be free,
All they want is our money in Whatehall,
Together we will stand until we make them see,
That all we want from life is our freedom
And the True Democracy.