
Date of issue: 23.04.2011
Record label: Sunday Best
Song language: English
Cannibal Kids |
Round here |
These cannibal kids want to be kings |
They don’t see that kindness is courage |
Or that sympathy sings |
Much louder than violence |
They are bitter and drained |
Eyes of ice stare from figures of flames |
They puff-chested, restless, nameless |
They’ve carried their pain |
To the point of being painless |
Numb ones, young ones |
New latch-keys of London |
Soaking up the humdrum |
And it makes them want to run from |
The state they’re in |
Powerless, penniless |
Feathers clipped, they find eagles' wings |
In the derelict brotherhood of gang-life |
That bang-bang life |
That shouts louder than a sarcastic teacher |
Clapping hands twice |
And staring down a frightened nose |
They learned that respect comes from striking a pose |
That demands it |
But we know respect and fear are not compatible |
A long way from bat and ball |
They don’t play, they let daggers fall |
From blood-soaked fingers |
While their siblings lie bleeding in hallways dead |
But like wisdom has always said |
Blood begets blood and keeps spilling |
So the pavements are stained |
And our hearts are grief-stricken |
Round here |
Cannibal kids want to be kings |
But there ain’t no royalty left |
Round here |
Sirens and the screams float on the wind |
And even the street shudders |
Afraid of our footsteps |
Round here |
Cannibal kids want to be kings |
But there ain’t no royalty left |
Sirens and the screams float on the wind |
And even the street shudders |
While that paranoid panic |
Goes seeping through the granite |
Of the breeze-blocks |
Turning our cities into sheep-flocks |
I pity those whose knees knock |
The victims of the media machine |
Poor souls who’ve forgotten how to dream |
You see, that cut-throat mentality’s |
Encouraged in business |
They tell you, to be a successful |
You’ve got to step on some necks |
So big money is made through that corporate pursuit |
They’re selling water and jailing kids for selling couple suits |
Please, born into blood-soaked cities of industry |
Informed of the savagery |
The infamy, barbarity of history |
Controlled, contrived, and depressed |
And attested, and stressed out and vexed |
It’s a message we’ve been fed |
So we could propagate their system |
Of division, inhibition |
Viciousness and contradiction |
We were suckled on the milk that they soured |
Told the future was ours |
And then disembowelled and disempowered |
We have been disgraced, deafened and deflowered |
Our brains brutalized and our defiance devoured |
And so now they’re shooting guns and robbing cats |
And trying to claw a little back |
But when the whole thing shatters |
It always starts with a little crack |
And then splinters stretching out for miles |
Pointing fingers at sharp suits with crocodile smiles |
But it’s us, we get the blame |
Told that life is all exchange |
Told that we are the children of capital |
That we are the children of apathy |
That we are the children of this rapidly changing reality |
But look, I say we learnt it from them |
From their rules and their ways |
Their legitimate businesses deceive and disgrace |
Look we learn it from them |
From their rules and their ways |
Their legitimate companies deceive and disgrace |
While us, we do what we can |
Because we live in this place |
Where the truth can’t be seen in the face |
Round here |
These cannibal kids want to be kings |
But there ain’t no royalty left |
Cause round here |
The sirens and screams float on the wind |
And even the street shudders |
Afraid of our footsteps |
Round here |
These cannibal kids want to be kings |
But there ain’t no royalty left |
Cause round here |
The sirens and screams float on the wind |
And even the street shudders |
Yes, even the street shudders |
Name | Year |
---|---|
Icarus | 2011 |
Concrete Pigeon | 2011 |
So Low | 2012 |
Best Intentions | 2011 |
Give | 2011 |
Slow Slow | 2011 |
Breakthrough | 2011 |
End Times | 2009 |
Rumba | 2011 |