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THE ISRAELITE Desmond Dekker Get up in the morning slaving for bread sir, So that every mouth can be fed, Poor, poor me-Israelite My wife an' ma kids dem pack up an'a leave me, "Darling," she said, "I was yours to be seen." Poor, poor me-Israelite Shirt dem a tear-up trousers a go, I don't wan' to end up like Bonnie and Clyde, Poor, poor me-Israelite After a storm there must be a calm, You catch me in your farm, you sound your alarm, Poor, poor me-Israelite


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