he dead men creep up Downing Street, Westminster and Whitehall
The waters rise, before their eyes and they head the drowning call:
Tired and grey, 'they turn away, A CURSE UPON THEM ALL!
The dead men rise and open their eyes, ready to buy and sell,
To turn the wheel of English Steel, Vickers, Rolls-Royce and Shell,
They live and die for I.C I, and from safe behind their wall,
They buy and they sell a vision of hell, A CURSE UPON THEM ALL!
The dead men range the Stock Exchange, where every game is fair,
A throw of dice and the market price divides the world in shares,
Row on row of carrion crows, they perch on London Wall,
They flourish and thrive on flesh that's alive, A CURSE UPON THEM ALL!
And you who stand and create with your hands the gallows, the bomb, the gun,
Who drop your bob in the Oxfam box, after the killing's done
Who draw your pay, then turn away from the ones up against the wall:
Go to your bed, and sleep with the dead, A CURSE UPON YOU ALL!
The tears run down through city and town, like rain the tears do fall,
The dead men stand with blood on their hands, the blood is upon us all,
Biafra dies before our eyes, and we weave her shroud and pall:
Write on her tomb: "We are your doom - A CURSE UPON US ALL!"
Contributed by Bernart Bartleby - 2018/5/7 - 11:11
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