My good friends
Those dark skinned
You call Abos
Those you call hopeless
And drainers of the public purse
Those you see in the dole queue
Those you see constantly drunk
Those you see filling our jails
Those who cannot get a job
In a white place stolen
Only ever designed for whites
Turn back the clock and ask yourself
What have you done to help my black friend?
In two hundred years
Where did you include him in your plans?
When did you pay him for his land?
When did you thank him for giving us his children?
The Stolen Generation
When did you thank him for the liberties?
You took with his women?
All the blacks you enslaved on sugar and flower rations
And the real injustice is
The exclusion of laws to bring those white bastards to justice