I. The Siren’s Call
“Your England’s bleeding!” shouts the voice
“Stolen by strangers. Stripped of choice!”
“Look how they come!” the posters cry
Dark floods from a Leave campaign lie
The boats, the queues, the brown-faced horde
They’re not at war, but you’re assured
“We’ll stop the boats! Take back control!
This land is ours. This land’s our soul.
No more quotas. No more shame.
We’ll say it proud - they’re not the same.”
The pubs all cheer, the flags come out
“He says it plain, no spin, no doubt!”
“Not racist, just want things fair!”
(While brown kids freeze in Dover air)
“British jobs for British hands!
Real values. Real men. Real plans.”
“No more cowards. No more fear.
Just English pride, and make it clear.”
The posters lie. The numbers bend
But still the rage finds air to send
And when you question what he’s said
“You hate this country!” they all tread
“Woke traitor!” “Liar!” “Full of lies!”
While silence thickens in the skies
II. The Murmur of the Masses
“He’s not a fascist!” says your mate
“He just wants Britain back. Too late!”
The teachers warn, the papers plead
“More guilt from woke elites,” they sneer
“We just want fairness. What’s so wrong?”
“Life was better before they came along.”
“You can’t say nowt without offence.”
“This used to feel like England, hence…”
“They lie to get in. Free hotels!”
“Fake trauma stories. Sobbing sells.”
“They burn our flags. Don’t integrate.”
“You call that culture? Nah. Just hate.”
No one speaks. No one replies
You watch the venom pass as wise
“It’s not racism, it’s just the truth.”
And everyone nods. The silence smooth
The telly roars in red and white
“They call you hater for being right!”
Your mate down pub now spits the name
Of neighbours who won’t play the game
And still it spreads. And still they smile
“Just jokes, mate. Let off steam a while.”
But jokes turn smoke. And smoke turns flame
An asylum hotel bears England’s name
The mosque doors smashed. The paint still dries
But no one posts. No one replies
Your mate just shrugs. “Well, tensions brew…”
And someone else says “Yeah, it’s true”
III. The Eyes That Turned Away
First, it’s “banter” in the Asda line
Then “law and order. Right on time.”
Then vans at dawn. Then camps. Then “Why’s
My Rashid’s mate been radicalised?”*
The knock at six. The file is clean
The Home Office smiles, cold and keen
No charge. No warning. Just remove
“Deport the liars.” Public approve
The courts say “legal”. Papers “proof”
Your cousin Mark just shrugs. “Keep aloof
It’s politics, not life and death
I’ve got my rent. I’ve bills. I’ve stress.”
The nurse asks softly “Where you from?”
You smile and nod. But something’s wrong
The café window smashed to threads
“Just kids with nothing,” someone says
The teacher gone. The priest replaced
The poet labelled, scrubbed, disgraced
“Don’t stir things up!” the voters hiss
As if their silence cures the fists
And those who still dare raise a hand
Are branded traitors to the land
“You hate the Brits. You spread the rot!”
“You’ll sell us out. Like it or not!”
IV. The Cracks Where Light Once Lived
The roads you cycled as a kid
Are split in two. They always did
Have names, but now they carry weight
“That’s ours.” “That’s theirs.” “Don’t tempt fate.”
Your Julie’s girl avoids her Grandad
(“He called Aisha ‘colonist’ - that’s mad”)
The school puts guards near lunch queue lines
The park now echoes “stay in line”
A wall is tagged with “White and Pure”
And no one scrubs it off no more
The air feels tight. The street feels strange
Your best mate’s voice begins to change
You whisper, “This ain’t what I meant…”
But whispers only feed consent
And when you speak, they roll their eyes
“You’ll never learn. You love the lies.”
The hate’s not hiding. It’s routine
It’s baked into the village green
The lies are louder than the proof
And every silence is the truth
V. The Reckoning
Beware the man who names your rage
Who feeds your fear from stage to stage
Who wraps his hate in laws and pride
And needs a crowd to stand beside
Beware the justs - “just common sense!”
“Just saying it straight.” “Just self-defence.”
Beware the words that sound like peace
But leave no room for you, at least
For every “He’s not that extreme”
For every “Just a meme, just steam”
For every nod, and every shrug
A deeper grave gets dug and dug
Till all that’s left is what you sold
For taking back control of old
A hollow land of flags and fear
Where British means “You’re not from here.”
Let this be what they remember:
Not the slogans
Not the pub talk
Not the trending clips
Not the proud vote
But the quiet,
cold,
final line:
“This ain’t what I meant.”
But you said nothing. And now it’s too late.