“………And I Say Unto Thee”

 

 

 

            There is a coward clinging like

A child upon the breast,

His mindset beset with difficulty

Of shaking other hands,

     His plans weak,

                        Weak while sat

Upon his mothers lap ��" tethered

To the apron of a vacant hookers

Station ��" a vagrant of a mirth

Where worth for fellow nations

Like the holocaust; a murder well

rehearsed.

 

 

            Meat headed and knuckle

Scabbed from dragging on the Earth,

Though his gait of conscience be

Nothing but a nonsense he begs

The courting of the young with

England glory talk.

 

 

 

            Big breasted buxom busted

Be his mothers tongue, “That be no

Son of mine who does not punch

The Paki first, who doesn’t cosh

The coon or slot the chink…….”

     (She’ll nurse him till he screams

Then squat upon his loins and ride him

Till insane).

 

 

 

            With crispy dick he’ll desire

The flattery of street, walking like

Hyena behind his mothers hind while

His semen trickles from her cheeks

Down thighs that rub together,

     Abrasive as a Hitler claiming

Nazi pride ��" and sweet, be

The buying of the children,

     He’ll skill them in the art of

Ticking boxes beside the BNP.

 

 

 

 

 

 

            Said so serenely to his mother ��"

“lets make a baby to carry on the onslaught

For Rule Britannia’s sport,

     Lets court the minds of all who

Want no foreigner on this land,

For we have our children’s hearts

To plant and claim the damning of the Earth.”

 

 

 

            “We’ll wave the jack and

Hammer home a Politic of incest ��"

Corrupt the minds and mama,

     You can strip em naked and suck

Them off like once you did for me

Before I came the parliamentary

For I’m a true Brit, intelligent of a

Wit in how to kill another’s culture.”

 

 

 

            Big breasted busted buxom

Like a hen that never got a fucking ��"

The clucking and the cooing be the

Crooking of the son, the chanting

And the booing,

The slanting to a ruin

The ranting and the cruising

Be his labia of life,

His lecture to his victims

Before the bayonet slips in

The scriptures he has written

Called the manifest,  

With every damned intent

Of bringing past the tense

He’ll claim a vote for victory

And shout the BNP.

 

 

 

Three wise monkeys sitting in a tree

See no

Hear no

Speak no

Do no

Feel no

Sit by

Wouldn’t cry

Wouldn’t try

Wouldn’t fly like birds,

Wouldn’t say a word to

Halt another war and three

Wise monkeys still sitting in

A tree, no fruit no leaves

But still upon a barren land

Under nuclear a sky,

Not developed any further

Than an apple for a bribe.

 

 

 

Michael J Waite

 

14 07 09