The way he looks at me,
I feel like a hologram.
This boy,
Barely double figures.
We're metres from men
Dressed in helmets and shields
Fingers
Inches from triggers.
His knock-off Barcelona shirt
Is all that's left from home.
The bulldog in the ballot box
Is taking back control.
These orphans, left inhuman,
Are aching for a chance.
The ringing in his ears
Might be tinnitus or trauma.
His trainers,
A size too small.
Clutching paperwork to exercise
His legal right to Britain,
Whose government responded
By building bigger walls.
He travelled with his dad,
But his dad's no longer with us.
Sweating at the break of dawn,
In the sunlight, he shivers.
His mother, and his sister,
Never made it out of Syria:
Syria, so sinister,
He could no longer return.
Nearly a thousand children
In this nightmare called home,
And 78% of them
Are living here alone.
We're standing in the school.
Marco is the teacher.
He's got a sofa now, in Newcastle,
But he's still a weekly feature.
He said:
Draw your favourite superhero,
With pencils, and a pad.
This boy sat in silence
And drew a picture
Of his dad.
Skint & Demoralised - Superheroes Lyrics
Skint & Demoralised - Superheroes Lyrics
We currently do not have these lyrics.
If you would like to submit them, please use the form below.
We currently do not have these lyrics.
If you would like to submit them, please use the form below.
The way he looks at me,
I feel like a hologram.
This boy,
Barely double figures.
We're metres from men
Dressed in helmets and shields
Fingers
Inches from triggers.
His knock-off Barcelona shirt
Is all that's left from home.
The bulldog in the ballot box
Is taking back control.
These orphans, left inhuman,
Are aching for a chance.
The ringing in his ears
Might be tinnitus or trauma.
His trainers,
A size too small.
Clutching paperwork to exercise
His legal right to Britain,
Whose government responded
By building bigger walls.
He travelled with his dad,
But his dad's no longer with us.
Sweating at the break of dawn,
In the sunlight, he shivers.
His mother, and his sister,
Never made it out of Syria:
Syria, so sinister,
He could no longer return.
Nearly a thousand children
In this nightmare called home,
And 78% of them
Are living here alone.
We're standing in the school.
Marco is the teacher.
He's got a sofa now, in Newcastle,
But he's still a weekly feature.
He said:
Draw your favourite superhero,
With pencils, and a pad.
This boy sat in silence
And drew a picture
Of his dad.
I feel like a hologram.
This boy,
Barely double figures.
We're metres from men
Dressed in helmets and shields
Fingers
Inches from triggers.
His knock-off Barcelona shirt
Is all that's left from home.
The bulldog in the ballot box
Is taking back control.
These orphans, left inhuman,
Are aching for a chance.
The ringing in his ears
Might be tinnitus or trauma.
His trainers,
A size too small.
Clutching paperwork to exercise
His legal right to Britain,
Whose government responded
By building bigger walls.
He travelled with his dad,
But his dad's no longer with us.
Sweating at the break of dawn,
In the sunlight, he shivers.
His mother, and his sister,
Never made it out of Syria:
Syria, so sinister,
He could no longer return.
Nearly a thousand children
In this nightmare called home,
And 78% of them
Are living here alone.
We're standing in the school.
Marco is the teacher.
He's got a sofa now, in Newcastle,
But he's still a weekly feature.
He said:
Draw your favourite superhero,
With pencils, and a pad.
This boy sat in silence
And drew a picture
Of his dad.
Writer: David Gledhill, Matthew Abbott
Copyright: Lyrics © BMG Rights Management
Copyright: Lyrics © BMG Rights Management