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Текст (слова) песни: Napalm Death - I`m Retching On The DirtI`m retching on the dirt,
it`s earthiness coating my throat.
I`m wincing on
the bitterest pill.
I refuse to swallow.
I`m offered the warmth of a velvet glove,
an iron fist to some.
I`m treated like a scab.
A traitor to my kind.
I`m hounded by
white-right
might
that wants the country pure.
I`m incensed by those in awe
of " living amongst their own ".
Selective perfection
will cut their own throats !
I`m constantly
forcing the point,
but we`re all retching
on dirt,
and we`ll choke
if we don`t spit it out !
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