You’re the marmite to my zaamie, howzit to my chana and the Jack to my Parow. The flip to my flop, you were with me when Chuck Norris was still a tjop. At the Milky Lane in Hillbrow when they served waffles way past 12 after nights up Northcliff Hill. You saw me red eyed, down and out, out and out, inside out. I crashed your pozzy, I crashed your Volksie, I crashed your ankle and you still liked me lank. You shared my dreams, my befokte schemes. Dried my snot and trane after each fong kong oke broke my heart. When I’m with you I feel kiff, zef, lekker… like I’m betters, the biscuit, the blits in witblits. Sonder jou is alles maar blerry bleak. Like I’m Ninja without his Yo-landi, chips that aren’t slap, bunny chow without bread, a warm Black Label. My heart feels colder and more empty than die Voortrekker Monument. You’re the Blk to my Jks, the zol in my rizzler, the Klippies to my coke, the haw that precedes my wena. Without you I’m just a shongo with no lolo, a solitary toyi, that buntu with no u. Gooi my a luck Jo. Here’s the 411. I’m finish and klaar with pulling an Mbeki. I love you my chommie. Come home.