Snarl at us; shove as you pass. But we do not quite forget.
For are we the people of England; and have we not spoken yet?
There is many an English man drinking less cheerfully
Many shopaholics venturing out more fearfully
There are no folk in the world so helpless and despised
As the ‘feral’ thugs with a hunger for violence in their eyes
They laugh at us and shout, but their eyes are wet
Do they not fear us, because have we not spoken yet?
Nicked sports shirted, flying from their gang lands, fists flying and girls,
Vodka smiling, short skirting around with breasts unfurled
Bloodied Boys in Bosworth’s Bar, fishing for girls who go down
Later they’re naked in orgies or comatosed beneath the bar owner’s frown
The eyes of our youth, bloodied with terrible tiredness and lust
Wear their gold, riot, and burn, here it’s only their morality that goes bust
These craven hooded boys, living in quaint monk-like housing, no food to find
Looking for love, in days and nights for anyone who’s kind
The speckled sports bars, enticing and alienating, God we are all weak…
Drinking, fighting, snogging and puking, no wonder they do not speak.
And the faces of these children grow greater than our leaders:
Who trick them, trap them; and in the press, shock Middle Englands’ readers.
Lions led by Donkeys, badly let down, encouraged to be hedonistic
By the men of the new religions, with their economies of plastic,
We saw their glass buildings growing, to menace or disgust,
Sure some were pure but most were vile; but none took heed of us.
We saw the Kids as they were ritually killed, their faces proud and pale;
Few men talked of freedom, while England talked of knives, drugs and ale.
At war with ourselves our visions of Albion crumble, when will we wake?
The Greeks, Germans and other euro doomed unlikely mockery make
As our chips, pounding beats; our English words invade all eyes and ears
Yet our Masters chastise us for our lack of education and lack of fear
So when we take the streets; revert to our free selves, condemn us not then
For we are the daughters and sons of generations of English women and men
Blasted in Iraq, Blown up in the tube, Ripped off in the shopping malls. We accept no blame
We want to be like lions, not keep ourselves in chains
Living in economic ruin, with no heroic work
Just faces and feats on You Tube after mobile phone cameras lurk
These are the faces of Circumstance and Pomp, do they know for what they fight?
As blood is spilled in streets and bars is there anyway to applaud these yobs at night?
Our patch of glory ended; Our wars, under-funded, in far off climes,
Our leaders duck the questions, redacted to hide their crimes
Our laws stagger from bar to bar, hacking & corruption. Being priced out of education
Teens are stricken; it may be, after all, a reflection of the state of the nation.
Or perhaps the shades of the craven hooded men hide eyes of steel,
Playing poker with their lives, the Gods of mammon in front of which they kneel:
JD Sports, Adidas, Nike, Apple, HDTV and Wii
And these new people take the land: and still it is not ‘we’.
They have given us into the hand of new unhappy lives
Kids with anger and honour, who dare to only carry knives.
They’re chastised by the journalists and newsreaders with their dead eyes;
They look at our Labour Lib Dem and Tory as a drunk man undoes his flies.
Politicians’ loveless pity is worse than the ancient wrongs,
And now, pissed in the evening; they know only crude songs.
We see men fighting like dogs and hunting in large packs
Yet there is no man fighting as we lyrically wax
It may be they will rise like lions from their slumber and despair
Or that our wrath will descend upon them, no matter whether they care
It may be that they are meant to riot and never rest
Our scorn upon them, a sound-bite, our society, broken, as fear is best?
But we are the people of England; and we have spoken a lot, yet
They snarl at us; shove as they pass. Because they do not quite forget.
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