|
When they kick at your front door |
|
How you gonna come? |
|
With your hands on your head |
|
Or on the trigger of your gun |
|
When the law break in |
|
How you gonna go? |
|
Shot down on the pavement |
|
Or waiting on death row |
|
You can crush us |
|
You can bruise us |
|
But you'll have to answer to |
|
Oh, the guns of Brixton |
|
The money feels good |
|
And your life you like it well |
|
But surely your time will come |
|
As in heaven, as in hell |
|
You see, he feels like Ivan |
|
Born under the Brixton sun |
|
His game is called survivin' |
|
At the end of the harder they come |
|
You know it means no mercy |
|
They caught him with a gun |
|
No need for the Black Maria |
|
Goodbye to the Brixton sun |
|
You can crush us |
|
You can bruise us |
|
Yes, even shoot us |
|
But oh-the guns of Brixton |
|
When they kick at your front door |
|
How you gonna come? |
|
With your hands on your head |
|
Or on the trigger of your gun |
|
You can crush us |
|
You can bruise us |
|
Yes, even shoot us |
|
But oh-the guns of Brixton |
|
Shot down on the pavement |
|
Waiting in death row |
|
His game is called survivin' |
|
As in heaven as in hell |
|
You can crush us |
|
You can bruise us |
|
But you'll have to answer to |
|
Oh, the guns of Brixton |
