Skint & Demoralised - Le Tricolore

it's 5am, in January
and the sky is like a mineshaft,
at the Jungle refugee camp
where sleep is at a premium.

they almost look like fireworks, but
they're heading for the ground:
these canisters of CS Gas
designed to make you weep.

from the fog above a swamp
to a thick and creamy cloud.
by the dozen load, they're landing
in the centre of the crowd.
heartbeats quadruple
with the rockets' downward arc:

blue lights,
white smoke,
red sparks.

folk disperse like pool balls
on a break.
distant smartphones follow it
like snipers.
woolly hats and flip flops,
taking cover where they can.
the odd ironic cheer
preceding chaos.

the National Guard are going hard
on unarmed refugees.
ignoring shrieks of panic
humanitarian pleas.
in riot gear, they circle the perimeter
like sharks:

blue lights,
white smoke,
red sparks.

blinded bodies dodge between
grenades that cause concussion.
if they're lucky,
then the next lot
might land on that tarpaulin.

a well-prepared assault
from the safety of the shadows
no warning, no discussion,
no mercy.

between businesses and hand-built homes,
it suddenly feels like trenches.
rubber bullets pummel flesh,
the water cannon drenches.
an air raid in the dead of night:
just bites, no barks.

blue lights,
white smoke,
red sparks.

blue lights.
white smoke.
red sparks.

Written by:
David Gledhill, Matthew Abbott

Publisher:
Lyrics © BMG Rights Management

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