A Motor-Bike In Afrika

A motor-bike in Afrika
Yeah, he’s riding the white line
Oblivious of snakes stretched out across the way like trip-wire
Shouting
«The road is mine!»
Tracing the line of the Skeleton Coast
Ghost riders from the Sud-West:
The original Angels of Death they seem
Six motor-bikes abreast
Riding through the oppressive night
Now only the hardest remain
Look at the scars of the tyre-tracks
Look to the bodies behind their backs
Look at the bastards bray
In Afrika today
The bodies of Biko and Soweto poor
The Christian message of Dutch Reform
The sound of the monster, the motor-bike roar
The hate in the eyes of the uniformed Boer
The head and the bucket, the boot and the floor…
Racial torture and racial war
In Afrika today
Come in Rhodesia, South Africa, your time is up…
No protection on a motor-bike, man;
Sooner or later that normal traffic’s gonna get you