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Your Majesty the king, 
Teferi, Duke of Harrar, 
The conscience conqueror, 
Man of the year 1935, 
Hearken to our voices - 
The voices driven out of bliss. 

Since you left us here in the barns, 
We have fallen in love with the guns. 

Of poverty, we've become the sea-level of all clime, 
And we die young  for grief shares the time; 
To mourn our fall every mother has wept, 
And of glory not a pin is left. 

Fraud has reigned 
And Joy has calmed, 
Trust is history 
And manners are dead. 

We have but it's not there, 
We see but we don't peer. 
We hear but we are deaf, 
We are tall yet we are dwarf. 
Outland we desire, 
And God dwells elsewhere. 

Your grace bewitched the planet at large, 
Our impotence couldn't crack a village. 

Your Majesty, 
What became of your last promise? 
That Africa would be one in bliss. 

Of unity we called it "split," 
And about us this they write: 
     "Africa is bleeding 
       From the rape of her light; 
       All black men are thus 
      Those who are ambivalent toward her." 

Delight did die and life did freeze, 
We are but a squalid abode of hell's nasty haze. 
Knowledge did sink and greed did grow, 
And the garlands withered right from our brow. 

Toward a dream half a dozen jumped, 
Down flowed their frolic blood, 
Corrupts rode where grace and valor stood, 
Thus died the dream that by oracle foretold. 

We became prisoners of a dream, 
That faded away over time. 

For heaven's sake, your grace 
And for Africa's sake, 
Please make your dreams rise, 
With that power of your midnight prayer, 
We remember, yes we remember, 
We saw you kneel to worship the Lord, 
Thus ours was a basket full of bread. 
Forgive us and ask the Lord to forgive us, 
For bliss, now that we've learned to praise. 

May your soul rest in peace, 
And May the Lord's company keep apace. 

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