Two firsts for me: a rap, and a thing about politics. It's a sweary rant mostly aimed at Donald Trump. All proceeds go to fighting fascism, ie. keeping me alive.
lyrics
Bitte nicht den Horror-Clown; er ist ein grosse scheisse…
You can’t escape the horror clown,
He strikes when you are sleeping,
You can tell him by the sound of children weeping,
Dust off your sectarian flags
And hang them on your porches,
Fetch your pitchforks from the barn,
And light your torches!
As humanity staggers towards inevitable oblivion,
And the batsman of democracy trudges back to the pavilion,
And the world’s clearly a shit-heap in a piss-trough of corruption,
And the four horsemen of the apocalypse are like “What’s the point of us, then?”,
I would like to analyse how we arrived at this position,
Piss-stinking and blinking on the brink of our own extinction,
Go back four score years, we fought a war here, against fascism, in Britain,
Now we’re too busy with pictures of kittens to consider political decisions,
But back in reality, the actual one, not virtual reality,
Where you don’t respawn or get reborn if you suffer a fatality,
From TV’s seething breeding ground of insanity and banality
Comes a calamity of a man of such delusional venality
That his whole personality’s basically a personality disorder,
Ordering walls across the border that he can’t afford, but,
It’s OK; Mexico’ll pay for themselves to go away,
Except this thick git’s now actually the actual President of the actual USA. Now, to you, what does that say?
Chorus
“I fink everyone should chill, mate; look, it might not be that bad,
Plus, the world’s impending ending’s trending, and it’s making me feel sad,
You never know, he might be better now it’s over and he’s won,
Who are we to judge someone based solely on everything he’s ever said and done?
We should do our best to help him; heal the wounds and work together”,
Nope; see, that one’s called appeasement; when’s it worked? Um - hang on - never.
He’s already inviting our right wing into his company of cunts,
Already dribbling his fascistic jizz all down our National Front,
See, the point is, the fact that there’s the merest possibility
Of twats like that twat anywhere near the spheres of serious responsibility,
Would a couple of years back have been an idea of the severest implausibility,
But now I fear, that we’re experiencing another era of mass-stupidity.
“I know words; I have the best words”; that’s the measure of the bloke,
I mean, that’d have been a piece of genius if it were s’posed to be a joke,
And, maybe best not to mention his intentions when he talks about his daughter,
Like he knows he oughtn’t assault her, but he still has all those naughty thoughts of …
What? It’s just - locker room talk, yeah?
Chorus
The year is 2067; after decades of great war
The Earth’s a furnace with its surface burnt by weapons-grade rainstorms,
There’s just a few groups of pollution-consuming mutant future humans looting the shopping malls, knocking all the zombies off with lasers and chainsaws,
Yeah, the reality is, it’s probably not going to be quite that cool,
Desolate deserts of recession tend to be unpleasantly depressing, as a rule.
Plus, though the dystopia’s distant, between that place and here,
There’s that shit period where it gets a little nearer and you get a bit wearier every year.
Anyway, OK, back to the present day, what I meant to say,
About this rapey race-baiting mate of the KKK in charge of the USA,
That President who presents evidence of Wernicke’s aphasia;
The one whose integrity evidently underwent unconsenting euthanasia,
Yeah, that one, who, every morning, when they’re pouring him into his suit,
Probably drinks the pussy juice of a virgin and then has a couple of lines of toot,
And then they plop him in his office to check the profits for his investors,
While they paint his highlights with iron pyrites and spray his face with grated red Leicester,
Yeah, that incestuous sex pest and inveterate molester,
The one whose world is gold and marble but whose heart’s pure polyester,
Well, I’d like to send him a direct message, like to offer him a challenge:
Yeah, you mate; you think you have the best words? You think you got verbal talents?
You’re not ashamed to go on stage and claim you’re “highly educated”,
I’ll give you a fucking education, mate, all marked, dated and graded,
There’ll be red pen spelling Fs then, you incoherent little man,
When I hand back your language homework, it’ll be marked “No Pasaran!”.
I’ll give you lines; write out ten times, “I apologise for lying”,
You snivelling shit, is that a quivering lip? Are you beginning to piss, or you just crying?
You can’t handle yourself verbally, the mere idea’s a clear absurdity,
You can’t even manage common courtesy; prove that you’ve got better words than me,
Come on, I’m serious; let’s see it; I’ve got time; I’ll put the kettle on,
Let’s see your best textual efforts, Don; stretch the breadth of your lexicon
You reckon it’s eloquent, the level on which you unintelligibly blether on?
You ain’t got the best words, motherfucker; very clearly I’ve got better ones.
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