And do those feet now stomp in grime
Marching to England’s mounting shame?
And is the gammon dogma trod
For Jacob’s foul, dividing game?
And do the hedge fund bets comprise
A metaphor for all our ills?
And what usury will appear
Among betrayed, desperate souls?
Bring me my knife of burnished steel:
Bring me my meth and fentanyl:
Bring me more beer: My sertraline!
Bring me my neighbour’s car on fire.
I will not win this online fight,
Nor will my Tweets change any mind
Til we have wiped away the scum
In England’s grim, unpleasant land.
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