For nine hundred years we’ve turned our faces

From wretched York– the gesture marks its shame,

Concealing this greatest of disgraces.

 

The city no longer now embraces

Its son of York – Malebrisse was his name;

The citizens of Yorkturn their faces.

 

He urged them baying with swords and maces,

A screaming mob intent to kill and maim

The brethren – the direst of disgraces.

 

Unique among other English places

Approached on foot, on horseback, or by train,

For nine hundred years we’ve turned our faces.

 

The tower stands where a small child races

And innocently plays their timeless game

Sheltered from this darkest of disgraces.

 

We cheated murder through Jove’s good graces

But chose to die on sword-tip and by flame;

For nine hundred years we’ve turned our faces

Away from York’s greatest of disgraces.