To prove that you don’t care about the colour of our skin,
we must answer umpteen questions on our racial origin.
You don’t ask if we’re from long lines of shipbuilders or miners
whose lives are not as marginal as folk from Indochina’s
now all that’s left is liberalism,
intellectual minimalism
sneering, “All is jingoism,
Eurocentric gringo-ism,
fish-and-chips-and-bingo-ism!
I’m a pink flamingo-ism,
I can speak the lingo-ism!”
What a load of dingo jism,
Prig Culture! The white man’s burden
to make your moral massiveness look certain,
to get the people squabbling, pitting men against men,
so we’ll never be a threat to your authority again.
Who’s the least racist? Let’s have a race!
Roll up for the self-righteous steeplechase,
a sweeping brace of sheep, of faceless creeps who gracefully keep the pace
as, cheap, debased, asleep, displaced, the people’s case is a feeble trace
of what it was, knocked onto its shattered back
by couscous-fattened packs with a purposeless battleaxe,
wrapping Muslim nabobs up in shawls of sugar-candy
like they’re mongoose-brained and you’re some cashmere-jumpered Gandhi.
Prig Culture, the white man’s burden,
smoking Darjeeling in your Marks and Spencer’s turban
when Inequality involves more than louts
who scrawl swastikas on roundabouts
and gay-bashing slogans on pavilion walls,
it’s about milk tokens and millionaires’ balls,
ill-spoken junkies, oil moguls with flunkies,
fox-furred madams and factory-monkeys.
But you don’t want to change that, or understand
that the workers are the Niggers of this two-tier land.
Prig Culture, the white man’s burden,
history’s bourgeois final curtain,
the kind smile on the face of the matador.
Screw your Prig Culture, bring back Class War!
