Where are your daughters? What do you say?

They crossed the land in search of marriage,

shamelessly shacked up with live-in lovers,

cavorted in dances with young men in New Clare.

With eyes of porridge their mothers bemoan

their absent children, who left them standing,

advising blank air and pleading in vain

with sons and daughters who've all been to school.

Jails crammed to capacity, courts jam-packed

with the learned products of school education;

the judges in charge just hoot in derision

at college certificates brandished by bums.

All our crooks are in school,

all our thieves are in school,

all our witches in school:

by Nontsizi, I swear you should all be expelled!

You wear red blankets in God's very house,

you're Christians by day, hyenas by night;

the pastor, the shepherd of God's own flock,

scurries past you without a nod.

What do we make of this curious conduct?

Which voice do we choose from among this babble?

Pride is one of your Christian companions,

God wears a cloak of crocodile hide.

You Christians are suckers for every fad,

you cast off skin garments and dressed up like whites,

your ears are tinkling for white man's booze,

but whites won't touch a drop of yours.

Every Sunday you romp on the veld,

kicking a football, whacking a racquet,

clothing your shame in the name of God:

Satan's struck dumb in amazement.

You're bereft of love, bereft of all,

yet you proclaim a God of love:

that faith of yours stands just as tall

as I do down on my knees.

If you ever try to come near us again,

we Reds will roast you like meat.

But I'm not saying the word of God

is entirely barren of truth.

Peace!