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