They stick their flags on lampposts
like territorial dogs marking street corners,
screaming silence into microphones
that carry their howls across broken Britain
"We're being oppressed!"
they cry,
drowning out everything else
with their orchestrated noise.
White British racists who swear they're not racist
wave the butcher's apron like bloody bandages,
a Union Flag stained with centuries of colonial slaughter,
claiming victimhood while throwing bricks
through refugee hotel windows
stones cast by those living in glass houses
built on stolen land.
Meanwhile musicians stand in court
for picking up a Hezbollah flag
not waving it as a sword, just touching it
like forbidden fruit.
Then we get arrested for supporting Palestine,
for not being racist, for standing with the oppressed
instead of dancing with the oppressors
at their blood-soaked ball.
Violence at refugee hotels
broken windows like shattered dreams,
terrified families huddled like sheep before wolves,
children crying behind apathetic police barricades
while the far right calls it patriotism,
and wrap hatred in flag-coloured ribbons.
But we know how to resist,
and form human shields like antibodies
fighting this brain infection,
one that stands between hatred and humanity
with arms linked like chain mail.
They blame migrants for everything
the housing crisis,
job shortages,
broken marriages,
their own failures piled high
like autumn leaves they refuse to rake.
They never blame the government
bleeding Britain dry to feed Israeli bombs,
enabling wars that birth refugees
like seeds scattered by hurricane winds.
British colonialism was the training ground
for all that followed:
the master class
in divide and conquer,
in genocide dressed
as civilization,
in theft painted
as progress.
From Ireland to India,
from Palestine to partition,
the blueprint was written
in British blood
on foreign soil
teach the world
how to hate,
how to kill,
how to steal with a smile.
The irony burns like acid rain
far right protests against immigrants
in The North of Ireland?
Occupied territory of the British Empire?
Surely just prisoners complaining about new cellmates.
Colonial subjects crying about colonisation
while their own land remains chained to Westminster's throne,
just slaves pointing fingers at other slaves.
The government laughs from ivory towers,
counting money sent to bomb Gaza
while British people fight each other
in streets that flood with manufactured rage.
Divide and conquer—the oldest song
in the imperial hymnbook,
played on repeat
until the masses dance to its rhythm.
Point fingers at boats crossing the channel
like desperate prayers,
not at bombs crossing borders with "Made in Britain"
stamped on their metal hearts.
Flag wavers scream about invasion
while their tax money funds actual invasions
thousands of miles away
worried about raindrops while funding tsunamis.
The real enemy sits in Westminster
like a spider in its web,
counting profits from arms sales,
watching the poor tear each other apart
like entertainment.
Wake up from this fever dream.
The flags on lampposts are just coloured cloth
that won't shield you from austerity's blade.
The government isn't your shepherd
you're just sheep being led to slaughter.
They aren't your enemy
they're simply running
from the same wars your leaders started,
refugees from fires that Westminster lit
with your money and their matches,
fleeing the same empire that taught the world
...how to bleed.
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