The lakes of Parisian teenagers’ blood
were still being mopped from the concert-hall floor
and corpses levered out of their wheelchairs
and stretchered, blanketed, out of the door
when the cry came over the Internet
in full-throttle hipster smarm
from George Soros’s quisling squadron,
“This is nothing to do with Islam!”
The passports of newly-besotted young lovers
with hearts full of bullets, were still being checked,
when across the Guardianista grapevine
screeched the politically always-correct,
“You morons! You bigots! It’s all about racism,
scandalous shoe-eating immigrant poverty,
famines of job opportunity
and the evil white man’s foreign policy!”
The mothers and fathers had only just started
weeping tsunamis of Level Nine grief
that will never subside, that will never be still,
that will never wash back with a moment’s relief,
when Generation Rainbow-Straitjacket
began their moral origami.
In a flapping great chorus of preening duckspeak
the establishment’s anti-establishment army
all quacked, “These rightpops are doubleplusracist!”,
soaking up praise for how well they’ve conformed,
patting themselves on their middle-class backs
for being so right and so well-informed.
And as blobs of French brain are washed from the wall,
I wonder which one gives me more cause to puke,
the atrocity in the concert-hall
or the snivelling traitor’s self-serving rebuke.
