Migrants
A moth is like a Visigoth,
Eats house and home and hearth:
It turns the solid into broth,
Comes thundering up the path,
As meaningless as scum or froth
Upon a British bath.
A caterpillar is the child
The moth sends up ahead:
In no time, gardens are defiled.
In no time, veg is dead.
They swallow everything that’s wild,
And eat the double bed.
They slaughter cooker, TV, fridge,
They eat designer jeans;
They team up with the Scottish midge
To vent their double spleens.
It’s long now since they crossed the bridge –
They are obscene, that means.
They ravage villages and towns,
They murder local fish,
They topple mitres, topple crowns.
They do just what they wish.
It is our heritage that drowns.
My God, they’re feverish.
Look upon their slavering jaws,
Their rows of foreign teeth,
The way they gobble up our moors,
The furze, the heathered heath:
They hoover up our great outdoors,
And what lies underneath.
Man the bunkers. Fill the bags.
The caterpillars shall not pass:
Though we may be reduced to rags,
We shall defend our national grass –
Wave, at once, the national flags –
Do otherwise, would be a farce.
