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

Negotiations

For the radical faction to change the constitution

They should take their allegations to the institution.

So we took our allegations with a big bag of patience

Before we even met we felt the pain of prejudgement.

So we set up a meeting and gave the standard greeting

And if vibes could harm us we’d have got a good beating.

But the minutes were restricted and the picture they depicted

Was nothing but a smutter of the things we had presented.

But onward we went with constructive intention,

Keeping our strengths from personal friction.

But keeping the prevention of personal pretension

Was keeping construction in total detention,

Resulting in destruction and bad vibrations.

And a cut in the bag that was holding the patience,

And a cut in the bag that was holding the patience,

And a cut in the bag that was holding the patience.

Englabetween

Englabetween

Between the empty cans and dustbin lids,

Between the eyes of cats and tramps,

Incubated drunks mumbling incomprehensible bids,

Crashed out under yellow water lamps.

This is England, I said, on a soap box in the street.

What Have We Got

What Have We Got

We’ve got a mountain on the horizon,

A sun on the floor,

The sea in the sky,

And the devil behind the door.

We’ve got a desert in a lake,

Islands in the city.

We’ve got the moon which is a fake,

And a bomb which is a pity.

We’ve got the stars when it’s light,

Silence when it’s not.

We’ve got friends, but they fight,

And what have we got?

We’ve got brother in the sky,

Sister in the sun.

Everybody’s getting high

Yet no one’s having fun.

We’ve got the rainfall,

We’ve got the snow.

Our sisters and brothers we call

And what do we know?