the angle on anglo
some section of saxon
a white flower burning
turning black in the heat
blood is spilt
gilt guilt

who cares about it who comes from there?
no nostalgia for the raped map
for the raided radius
no hatred or anything so simple
but no glorying in some notion sullied
by knowledge of history
of living where the cards fell

pure bloods from a mongrel nation
who guard the grocers
and eat potatoes and roast beef
where do you get this erroneous belief
perversity and grief
we leave the tea to steep

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