They’ll throw you in the brig, my boy,

lock and key and bars and all —

they’ll frame you for a shoddy ploy,

and that, young man, shall be your fall.

They’ll make you, at Old Bailey, dance,

a puppet at their beck and call —

the strings quite long, you’ll make your stand,

like smiling fish caught in the trawl.

For up is down and down is up

in the heart of Londontown;

all drink from the tainted cup,

and in that poison, merrily drown.

That Island’s topsy-turvy, boys —

we knew, back when, at the publican house;

we steel’d our hearts, we made some noise,

and started for the ammo-house!

We saw this back in ’76,

the Englishman’s dead sovereignty;

“Autonomy, or London’s tricks?”,

a question now contemporary,

for tyranny needs not a king,

no laurel wreath nor broken crown,

but everybody’s assenting

to madness and the rule of clowns.

Free thought is your only crime,

and wrongthink is your only sin.

You are free to spurn this rhyme,

but it won’t stop with Robinson!

Boy is girl and girl is man;

girl is owned in grim Sharia;

Logic is the bogeyman,

a hunted and suppressed idea!

And of the hunt — who owns your land?

To courts and critics— who’s immune?

Dare I say the Muhammadan,

the zealous knife of the crescent moon!

For right is left and left is right

in the lands of Albion;

who shall stand like men and fight

for England just and halcyon?