Translated lyrics:

It’s the year ninety-seven (1997), This is before the Intifada (uprising), My father is drinking his coffee on an empty stomach, My mother squeezed some lemonade. She got up, turned the TV on, To see what ordeal the lord has laid for us. Suddenly, the reporter shouted, “Princess Diana has died!”

A picture of a tunnel and a car, A Black car crushed in Paris, On the screen, a blonde princess laughs, Beside her, the English weep.

Not sure why, no one knows, A tear fell from my mother’s eye. My father was shocked by the sight, He asked her, “What’s wrong, why are you concerned?”

Mother wiped her tears, She took the coffee to the kitchen. Dad stood still, He spoke calmly, it’s not like he screamed, He gathered everything in his golden heart, He asked her, "Why are you crying? The princess died, to the chimp,* May the queen follow suit.

Who do you think ruined our homes, If not the rulers of the island of the accent? Every disaster they have, Must, to us, claim it with joy."

Who do you think ruined our homes, If not the rulers of the island of the accent? Every disaster they have, Must, to us, claim it with joy."

My mother was furious with him, Hit him with the coffee pot on the counter. She asked, “What’s in your chest? Tell me, a heart or an old shoe?”

Something sparked at that moment, Something numbed, something strung. Suddenly, from the mountain of toughness, A fragile man crumbled in front of us. My mother didn’t understand herself, Why she spoke to her husband like that. My father looked down, Like a boy who dropped his ice cream.

From that day on, my father, He developed a new habit, Every day at dawn, he wakes up, Before the newspapers are printed. He sits on the edge of the bed, He stares at the walls, He raises his hands to the ceiling, Searching for the Almighty.

And he asks with all reverence, From Muhammad and from Jesus, Amen.

May the royal’s graves be exhumed May the Queen fall off her horse and crash

That one time we were having a drink On a weekend, with the cool breeze I asked him why he never travels He said, “There’s nowhere like the home.” My mother had always begged him To fly and visit her brother in London But he’s glued to that plastic chair Seated in that neighbourhood always grumbling

He complains about the butcher, whose prices are higher than a pharmacist He calls the local board members thieves And that he wants to file a suit, to sue To go own to the lawyer in Akka And that it is also unreasonable That his wage is down by half because of tax

I said, “Simmer down, old man.” We clinked glasses. He said, “Cheers!” He lit a cigarette and gazed away He takes a smoke between each cough Slides his hand on the edge Picks off sprouting grass Brushes moss off the wall And curses Queen Elizabeth

I laughed, and he laughed along The Arak steered us out of tune He asks me, "Do you know what a person really wants? I said, “He wants to grow old with guarantees. I guess, to grow safe and sound.”

He told me off and said, "Shut your mouth. Thought you were in university, an intellectual? We were created to wish, No matter what time brings. No matter how the scales would tip, That Elizabeth falls off the horse…And crash!

At first, we held a grudge Then it became a story Then it became a joke But we never moved on from the heartache As if it’s on a bank of a lake The heartache was a lady in red And the lake was a small home Water dissolving in its walls

I looked inside at my mother, She was dozing off in front of the TV. I woke her up, so she could sleep in the room She laughed and said, “It’s more relaxing here.” My father is still sitting outside I I grabbed my laundry bag I told them I was heading back to Haifa I opened the door, I felt it was heavy

I drove in the gloom while the streetlights Reflected glimpses of ordinary sadness I hear the sound of daily silence, I touch the details of the clouds.

I drove in the gloom while the streetlights Reflected glimpses of ordinary sadness I hear the sound of daily silence, I touch the details of the clouds.

Then, suddenly, I found myself wishing For Buckingham Palace to burn down! Before I was aware of the situation, Before my reaction could be interpreted, I wished Queen Elizabeth would fall off her horse and crumble!

I thought I would turn out different But here I am grey and old Like my father I am sitting here, wishing All the works of Shakespeare would disappear.

All the pages of The Sun’s burn And with it, the nude pages That everyone would stop listening to Shelley’s poems To songs by Freddy Mercury

That Alice never comes back from the hole And Tony Blair be bit by a cobra And Thatcher, the Iron Lady Rise from her grave so we could bury her again

And every hunter be castrated Every hunter who killed an elephant And the empire, on which the sun never sets, Be eaten alive by global warming

Oh murmur of the breeze Go and tell the fawn: Hopefully, The Beatles be run over On Abbey Road

We’ll open a garage in Tate Modern And a hummus place in the National Gallery We’ll put a bounty on Arthur Balfour’s head And have it arrive to town by delivery

Laugh at the Rolling Stones When pushed up by Sisyphus Wish Sakhnin to defeat Manchester United Seven to zero, easily

To light up tires on Downing Street And make up new names for it And the troll Boris Johnson, To pluck his hair out with hot wax

Then, like the story of Little Red Riding Hood We’d bring a fearless porcupine hunter To collect stones and pile them up Inside Mr. Churchill’s big belly

And we’d never forget to wish For David Bowie to be alive For Lilibet to fall off the horse And collapse on a marble floor For all her bones to get crushed And the platinum never helps her

Bowie would see the bones as fine powder Then sniff it, mistaking it for cocaine!

We’ll open a garage in Tate Modern And a hummus place in the National Gallery We’ll put a bounty on Arthur Balfour’s head And have it arrive to town by delivery

Laugh at the Rolling Stones When pushed up by Sisyphus Wish Sakhnin to defeat Manchester United Seven to zero, easily

To light up tires on Downing Street And make up new names for it And the troll Boris Johnson, To pluck his hair out with hot wax

Then, like the story of Little Red Riding Hood We’d bring a fearless porcupine hunter To collect stones and pile them up Inside Mr. Churchill’s big belly

And we’d never forget to wish For David Bowie to be alive For Lilibet to fall off the horse And collapse on a marble floor For all her bones to get crushed And the platinum never helps her

Bowie would see the bones as fine powder Then sniff it, mistaking it for cocaine!

I was getting drunk alone At the bar at SOAS university They say they get hammered by eleven At 10:30 they rang the bell.

I started talking to my father On the origin of the family and the state I said, “Yalla Yaba, cheers!” The bell rang, the last round.

Tomorrow we’ll play a checkmate The throne will suffer our revenge With the laugh of Uncle Engels In the bed of Hamed Sinno.

At this time, in the same hour, My father was on the veranda. My mother asked him when they would leave To congratulate her sister in Kafr Manda.

He looked at her, not in the mood, He said, “When Ireland unites.” She slapped him on his shoulder, and laughed, telling him to come sleep next to her.