In nineteen hundred and sixty eight, a prophetic speech was made. A pol named Powell saw a future foul, so he would have to be flayed, my friend. He would have to be flayed.
The gates were flung and the Paks flew in, as fast as allah could fly. But it was all good since our virtue stood, and it wasn’t me to die, my friend. It wasn’t me to die.
The years unfurled and the mosques grew thick, a kebab in every hand. But our tongues stayed still as prison is no thrill, and the hate speech had been banned, my friend. The hate speech had been banned.
But hate is a thing in every man’s eye, and theirs is surely not mine. So when Rigby’s head never found his bed, well we did not have the spine, my friend. We did not have the spine.
Now the bell tolls every week, our florists and morticians do well. They swarm from around the globe, don’t be a xenophobe, and try to ignore the smell, my friend. Just try to ignore the smell.
When I think back on that visionary man, a tear tickles the eye. As his river of blood has become a flood, it is now me who dies, my friend.
It is now me who dies.