the buildings to the very ground.
And we’re feeling
The unsteady feel,
The breaking of the seal of unconsciousness.
Listening.
And we’re breaking the dawn,
For this morning there’s a different sound.
Keeping our ears to the well-trodden ground,
We’re angry with the pain we hear.
There’s an insecure feel in the air.
Because we’re listening,
Like wolves in the dark,
Eagles in the sky.
Driven like cattle,
Ears to the ground.
We can hear the water.
We need water.
We need to quench our thirst.
But we’re listening first.
Cautious as cats,
Punished as dogs,
We can hear the water.
The priest chants.
The congregation turn their heads.
The politician rants.
The people turn their heads.
Muffled screams and whispers,
Pointing fingers,
While the silence crawls from the inner city towns
And holds them in the fist of suspense,
And holds them
waiting
waiting
waiting
For the gutters to run with blood
And the sweet taste of victory in the mouths of the downtrodden.
And if you don’t keep listening
You’ll be caught unawares.
We’re listening.
We’re listening.
We’re listening.
Nursery Rhyme
Humpty Dumpty was pushed,
But propaganda played its part.
And Little Jack Horner was paranoid,
One word would lose his heart.
So he pulled out a plum instead
To save his self from winding up dead.
He knew all the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Would never put Humpty together again.
Some Quotes from Neatherton Man Found in Deepest England Somewhere between 1974 and 1980
All the same.
Wogs go home.
Chalky, living in a blackboard.
Golly, it’s a jam.
Toby, your name is Toby.
Monkey, lamppost swinger,
Hair like a sponge.
For breakfast
A bowl of coonflakes.
For tea
Coon on the cob.
Wipe off the coondensation.
Paki.
You’re all right, but the other niggers . . .
Wog. Stay at home.
Nigger, wog, nigger.
Stab a nigger.
Rubber lips.
Splatted noses.
You can’t give a black eye
To a black bastard.
Jungle bunny, go home.
Black girls are prostitutes.
Pakis smell of shit.
Get a wash, Paki.
NF. Wogs go home.
BNP. Give them a whitewash.
All good cricketers,
All fast runners.
It’s because they run through the jungle.
As thin as an Ethiopian,
Poor as a Cambodian.
Kunta.
Your name is Toby.
Pink tongues, bright pink.
They’ve got white hands.
Big Black ugly nigger feet.
Tell us the one about the sambo.
Haven’t I seen you on a jam jar?
Light his hair, it won’t hurt his head.
Throw stones at his hair, it won’t hurt.
Wipe fingers on coon’s face.
Does it come off?
It’s stuck on.
They take our jobs,
They take our women,
Send them home.
Wogs, go home.
Coons, go home.
Negotiations
For
