Something smells. It must be rotten.
Something here's begun to stink.
Someone's stench is misbegotten.
Someone isn't in the pink.
We don't eat the gujerati,
Drink a sari or sarong,
We are with the National Party.
Something has a shocking pong.
Down our sphincters, up our noses:
Smells as if there's something died.
Something isn't English roses.
Something isn't English pride.
Faces black as English thunder -
Nostrils not in perfect nick.
Where's it coming from, we wonder,
Smell of something very sick.
Taste it on our tongues, a sewer,
Something with a rancid reek,
Feel it threading forwards through our
Teeth when we begin to speak.
Odour of the carcass, cleavers.
Feel it waft around our face.
Pains us, as the true believers
In the proper island race.
Stench of English bile and bowel
Fills our country, north and south:
Half as if each violent vowel
Squatted in our loyal mouth.