There’s an Indian
in a Indians world.
As crooked as a walnut tree,
but more devout than you’ll ever be.
I’d love to be a ships captain
sailing o’er the sea,
dwell in eternity,
aside a mermaid.
Here come the unforgiving Englishmen
all dressed up in red coats,
liken little tin soldiers,
come over in boats.
Here the sun burns everything to dust
It’s no place for the righteous or just.
So with clamour, sound your battle horn,
certainly not an invite to tea.
Watch out for Allah, Muhamid too,
lest cut ye all ta pieces,
Stick ye back with glue.
Mine tears are for Moses,
all thine prophets too.
Mine tears are for Abraham,
wasn’t he a Jew?
Heathens sharpen up your spears.
Wanton harpies tarted up with paint,
go tell the foreign devils
to pray for their saints.
Copyright © carrington marshall