Your words were boots Joe, boots in Lewisham
when black and white and yellow riot
put down the Nazi scum,
and in Trafalgar Square in ninety-one
when the fury of our rainbow class
put Thatcher on the run
your words were firing like a gun Joe,
firing like a gun.
I heard your booming words echo
through the streets of Prague
when we shut the World Bank down
and you were roaring vengeance in Genoa
when we had to fight through gas and bullets
just to hold our ground
and when the many-headed future
met in Florence everyone knew your name Joe
your songs were all around.
And when the threw me in a cell Joe I sang straight to hell Joe.
And when they stood me up in court Joe I hummed the Brixton guns Joe.
Oh Joe! when you got up to sing it was a fist in a copper’s face.
It was a pitchfork in a landlord’s neck.
It was a bullet in a contra’s gut.
It was an arrow in the eye of a general.
It was a kick in the balls for the rich.
It was everything good Joe. It was everything good.
And when us Zombies and us Rastas and us Punks and Workers win you will be singing in our blood Joe you will be dancing like speed in our veins.