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There is a bullet,

with speed, with speed,

wet of Afrikaner blood,

grief the message he carries in flight

he comes from an Afrikaner rifle

he comes through an Afrikaner heart,

Pain and sorrow

enables the heart’s powers.

Sleep soft, faithful heart, so cruel pierced,

because accelerating year and year out,

will the bullet still spread his message

and where he hits, never heal the wound;

caused by the traitor

but sanctifies the Afrikaner Spirit.