Here ends the life of a victim
washed up on an English shore.
Placed two million and nine
he stood in a line
and behind him stood two million more.
He had run through the ruins of Mosul
With his wife from Allepo they fled.
Through mine fields and shell holes
and barefoot through hell holes
the feet of his baby, they bled.
They crawled through the mud in the darkness,
in nakedness hunger and pain.
With his child on his back
he ducked from the flack
but for her he would do it again.
And I watched on my screen at the horror
while Hungarians I thought like me
strung barbed wire in fences
and called it defences
then laughed in hysterical glee.
He walked two thousand miles across Europe,
his wife and his child by his side,
til they fell down exhausted
and there were accosted.
His daughter just lay down and died.
His wife rocked the dead child in mourning
while the thieves stole the pennies they’d scraped.
In his hunger and thirst
he struggled and cursed,
held down while he watched his wife raped.
They stood in the camp near to Calais.
Though the danger they tried to ignore,
til they got in a boat
too leaky to float –
you do that when fleeing from war.
The boat, it went down half way over.
All forty-eight souls, they were lost
in a craft built for ten
– save for two wealthy men
who counted the cash not the cost.
So come not to my nation, you hopeful.
Though Jesus, it’s said that he saves,
Dave said “Five thousand in –
any more is a sin
and Britannia, she still rules the waves.”
Your suffering no longer moves us.
And the sea, well your body it bloats.
For in sheer desperation
the soul of my nation
was sold for a handful of votes.
You’re dirty and smelly and foreign.
Your skin’s not the colour of mine.
So I’ll play on my i-phone
while I cast the first stone –
Be off with you – Get back in line.
We’ve got enough problems I tell you,
and we don’t care you’re all out of luck.
So you think I’m a prick?
You’re a bargaining chip.
Piss off – ‘cos we don’t give a fuck.
We’re tired of watching you suffer.
It’s late and we’re heading for bed.
Were those your last screams?
Then get off of our screens –
Cos frankly We’re glad that you’re dead.