Farage’s England

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.