They are the villagers
a torch wielding mob
they march up to the castle
and elect the fucking knob

They are the villagers
a banal bovine barrage
they like the queen and Simon cowl
and Nigel fucking forage

You are a villager
your head is full of sticks
You are not a free man
you are number six

They’ve never left the village
where life is simple, steady
don’t tell the villagers
They’re dead already

Empty hearted inbreeds
who hold the whole race back
stared out the window in their class
and the village stared right back

Ignore the mobile library
It’s for nans and gays
I’d rather play a shoot em up
and I can’t read anyway

They stay in their hovels
on a diet of porn and pot
and vote for the tories
and the land that time forgot.

Brent Jackson.

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