Listen!

Liquor's the lightning-bird itself

for quarrelsome beer-hall regulars,

the haunt of the sons of Long-Dead,

who gaze through sightless eyes.

Liquor's the lightning-bird itself,

a cannibal, mbulu in human disguise.

I lost the thread: it's a paranoid killer,

this brandy they drink in denial.

Liquor's the lightning-bird itself!

Where are our country's maidens?

“In the city slums we roar in chorus:

‘In the storm we'll sink together’.”

Liquor's the lightning-bird itself,

a scoffer creating dummies:

find it in Solomon's Proverbs,

in Chapter 22.

Liquor's the lightning-bird itself,

Jongizulu's talking drum.

We've come to this pass through liquor,

as the Ngqika mountains testify.

What has more strength than liquor?

Powerful posts are lost through it.

Liquor sings praises till its guts bust,

calls us with clichés, wows us with wonders.

What has more strength than liquor,

an exploding cannon revealing shame?

It's fit to be drunk by our critics,

who splash in the Orange but don't cross.

What has more strength than liquor?

High rank is trampled by liquor,

whose path is splattered with blood

till his red shirt looks like a Methodist's.

The canteen's a cranny for witches and warlocks

denouncing the drink they drink:

they brew their potions by the dull of the moon,

shunning the broad light of day.

I don't insist that drinking's a sin,

then again, I'm not saying it's not;

There's a lesson for us

In all that occurs.