Dropping death on the (other) mans child: so brightly
a fathers job for Darwins sons: Genes will. But not
cleanly, like a lion pissed by alien scents cracks
the necks of his wordless cousins cubs with gum-shod
blades drip-trickling antiseptic drool, breathlessly
attended by five or six brand-new brides of short
memory and of prime, if little, present choice.
no, no. Were no impulsive, tufted tail-waving
executioners: were human kings, for Gods sake!
We have i-ma-gi-na-tion, and manners. There are
so many manners. You will learn them. For a start,
lets hear you sing a pretty thank you to our braves:
the boys whose hearts, minds, beliefs, and occasional
little bums the money State raped while-U-waited,
purely for personal pleasure of course and/or
training purposes (delete as appropriate).
We are bringing you our bold, spirited songs, hic!
excuse me, ci-vi-li-za-tion, and mobile phones
at a discount. You get to choose the ring tune, so...
what about the Westminster song? Go on! Listen:
... ThankyouThankyou... ThankyouThankyou... ThankyouThankyou...
THA-A-ANNK! YOUuUuUu! THA-A-ANNK! YOUuUuUu!
And we dont expect our women to fetch or hunt:
we are free human kings: you will toil for us, cause
look: its the embrassing truth trooth weve right forgot ow.
Were flogging Brits! For Gods own sake. You do, we flog,
you buy. Hey,
weve polished our metal wings for the swarming. Hear
how we roar under your sun! Oh we do love to
have fun, all is fun, what a laugh, chill! Yes, indeed,
these are St George-crossed crotches which we shake at you
(wildly) in dickdiggingup land. Were awfully
pleased with your police, theyve behaved themselves so far.
Hello? Im in the bomber! Ill see you soon. What?
Liberation Square. No, dont worry, you cant miss me.
Now will you scrape my new pavement clean of your cubs
before they start to smell? Ill help, dont mention it.
nothing personal you realize, so lets be
quite civilized about this: will you marry us?