Letra da Música: Israelites - Desmond Dekker

I get up in the morning slaving for bread sir,
so that every mouth can be fed,
Poor me, Israelites.

Mi wife an' ma kids they pack up an'a leave me,
"darling" she said "I was yours to recieve",
Poor me, Israelites.

Cho! shirt dem a tear-up, trousers a go,
I don' wan' to end up like Bonny and Clyde,
Poor me, Israelites.

After a storm there mus' be a calming,
you catch me in your palm, you sound your alarm,
Poor me, Israelites.