The ballad of David Steel

Rachel Law

0 England is a liberal isle, Their queen, Elizabeth; The second of that name to rule Over a land of death.

Under the first Elizabeth Was scaffold and the rack But with the second walk with me To Wimpole Street and back.

Come see the women walk that street With swollen bellies fat Then later on, those pavements pass With bodies drained and flat.

Young life walks into Wimpole Street And walks not out again But on the stones of Wimpole Street The only tears are rain.

The English are a kindly race And tolerant in thought And lazily allowed themselves To think as liberals ought For liberals are diligent And Englishmen are slow So now across this pleasant land The red-hot ovens glow.

For blood runs free in England now Free as our liberal thought And England's spirit, once so dear, The liberals have bought.

Not just in Wimpole Street, oh no, But over all the land On rich doll's couch and free ward bed Death smears his bloodstained hand.

For they have taught us liberal laws Under Elizabeth And now we know that sex is king, And that his tithe is death.

There was a bad King John, long since, The king no books extol. Yet all he lost was lands and wealth But we have lost our soul.

We listened to the liberals After our war was won.

That war to stop the ovens when Each mother risked her son.

We listened to the liberals And mocked the rows of graves Till England in her glory fell Into destruction's waves. For red-hot ovens burn again Though Belsen's fall to rust And mounds of infant bodies feed The fires of liberal lust.

Yes, red-hot ovens flow again. And Himmler laughs in hell To see the liberal furnaces And know he taught them well.

How apt his pupils, they outstrip His genius for doom; For Jew or Aryan, black or white, The liberal fires find room.

Enough to be a babe, to live Enough to sound your knell, For if you lived you might impede The lust we serve so well.

So welcome to the ovens, child, And pray before you burn.

For England and the English soul That it may yet return.

With Belsen bones incinerate, With Buchenwald lie still; The arms of Auschwitz open wide, Old tears of Israel spill.

Yet Jew or Gentile, poor or rich, Their mothers cry no more. For sex is god and infant tithes Smoke on his oven's floor.

For Englishmen are rutting stags And English dolls their does And blood-encrusted from the womb Leers out the English rose.

0 hard to be a boilerman And pile the coke so high. And throw the bag-wrapped foetus in Any maybe hear it cry.

0 sweet to be a surgeon skilled And rake in fees from both Rich dollies and the NHS And damm that older Oath.

But not so sweet to wake at night And see around your bed Old tutors, colleagues, even God — But worst of all the dead.

Q sweet to be a young MP By liberals garlanded, The trendy triumph in your ears Screams louder than the dead. But oh, but oh, the dead come back To haunt a liberal's night, And childrens' ashes, like a curse On liberal heads alight.

0 sweet to be a murderer In England's liberal isle, To grumble as you watch TV Or hunger-strike awhile.

0 sweet to be a murderer's moll And get your hair done free And moan that prison spoils your hands That helped a child to die.

Yes Brady sulks and Hindley takes Communion on her knee While on the Moors the keening winds Remember dolefully.

I wish I were the northern wind That blows across the Moors. I wish I were the children's ghosts That rattle at the doors.

For now those children unavenged Are joined in endless night By tiny thousands, murdered all In England's liberal blight.

0 strange to be a Bishop bland And preach humanity For blacks in southern Africa Yet let our children die!

But bitter to be English now And have a mother's heart, To hear the children's voices wail From death's piled funeral-cart.

What savage vixen of the wild Feeling her belly grow Would send her cubs on to the fire And then a-mating go?

Yet swollen bellies walk our streets

And then are seen no more, Another dress, another drug, And out again to whore.

Better the vixen's tearing claws Than liberal doctors' hands That bind our infants' bodies tight In sacrificial brands.

For sex is England's tribal god Under Elizabeth And men must rut and wombs must swell To pay his tithe of death.

For vice is ruler, virtue nought, Gratification all, And better any battle red Than brothel's bugle-call.

Yes better that self-pitying band (Whoever called them Gay?) Because whatever else they do At least they do not slay.

Yes better anything than this, This stench of infants' flesh! These smoke-rings of a nation's rut Fouling its meadows fresh.

0 sad to be an English Queen Of blameless purity, Yet see her Seal of England set To legal butchery.

For England is a liberal isle And history books will tell In future years, how Englishmen Gave up their land to hell.

In the Dark Ages, they will write, God and His Angels slept; But under that Elizabeth God and His Angels wept.