Welsh descent, only child, upper working-class
Grammar school, Cambridge, double starred First
No interest in politics; Nietzsche ‘Will To Power’
Learnt Urdu, intending to be the Viceroy of India …
Youngest professor in the Commonwealth
Always had ideas above his station
Always felt he was born to lead the nation;
During the war, a Private, in the kitchen
Promoted, leg up, and over, the youngest Brigadier
Hated America, “…they intend to bury the British Empire”
Served in Egypt, loved liberating the little boys
Like the other Poor White Trash before him
Felt like a king, his birthright, a royal white skin
Posted to India in 1943; LOVED India and the Indians
“I fell head over heels in love,” my ass in the air
“I soaked up India,” a blow-job beyond compare
Many, many casual flings, ejaculating ecstasy
Two intense love affairs had him writing poetry :
Yes, he was an Indian Muslim so gay
But he nailed my cross five times a day
I wish I had come to India a hundred years earlier
I would have lived, loved, and been buried here;
Slumming with Wogs, and playing doubles
Foaming at the mouth, I love to blow bubbles
Rivers of come, I love to swallow scum
Especially after it’s been up my rectum.

A life in broken verse … or is there more
Closet front, but who came in the back door :
A little MP for a small Midland town
Not far enough from where you were born
You always, always aspired to get much higher
You would not fail to set the world on fire
As Minister of Health you recruited West Indian nurses
Sail to gold-paved England and wipe white arses
The English are too good to do such dirty work
Import the Darkies so we have more time to jerk;
An Immigration Bill passed, you said not a word
You did not object, your voice was not heard
You were too big, you would lead the herd:
In 1958 you got the Treasury team to resign
In 1963 you refused to serve your captain by design
In 1964 the Tories lost the election with your help
Your bedpost got nailed with another scalp
In 1965 there was a Party leadership contest
You did not campaign, or promise to feather the nest
Or tickle every MP who went to Boarding School
Or offered to service each one with your tool
They knew, they recognised you as one of their own
But you were a peasant who lusted for Golden Brown
You were a cream-puff who did his best to irritate
You got fifteen votes out of two hundred and ninety-eight.

In 1959, in Hola Camp, Kenyan political prisoners
Refused to work, clubbed to death for being sinners :
Asking for Freedom, and their Land, we must rehabilitate
Stubborn monkeys must be forced to co-operate
Not political, not economical, just a voodoo cult
War crimes? Illegal? It is all their fault;
Mau Mau is not a Kenyan word (bitter tears, anguished cries)
Only English voices were heard (propaganda and lies)
English MP’s said the Kenyans were ‘sub-human’
Fires of hell must be used against the demon;
In that day and age, in that climate of hate and ire
In the Mother of Parliaments, you threw water on the fire
You risked your career, risked being branded a traitor
You stood up and laid claim to your finest hour
You stood up for Truth, for Justice, for the Humane
You stood up and spoke like a Righteous Man
You appealed to the Heart and Soul with your Word
You inspired the few to break away from the herd …
And the herd? Nothing is more dangerous
Than a Englishman on his high horse
He will scorch the earth, pillage, commit genocide
Quote the Bible, and say God is on his side
Invade a country, and force his rule
Proof the Darkie is a goddamn fool …
Does that apply to you too, Mr. Enoch Powell
When it suits you to spread your shit with a trowel?

From those heights, from that mountain top
It was you –- you chose to take that drop
In your heart of hearts you knew it was a mistake
Yet you continued till you were lower than a snake …
By 1968 you could no longer wait, soon be too late
Worse than death, you would have to resign to your fate
To never be the leader, never be the Prime Minister
Bitter, bitter, the pus in the wound did fester
Who to kick, who to blame -– point the finger
It’s the Paki, the Paki, the brown nigger
(The youngest Professor, the youngest Brigadier
And hoping to be the oldest Prime Minister!)
Drowning, drowning … you clutched the last straw
The Wogs are to blame for your fatal flaw
A sad old queen who wants to be king
Deafening, deafening … you want to hear the choir sing
Noise! Noise! Let there be even more Noise!
Blow the bugle, bang the drum, drown out the Voice …
Like a cheap tart you decided to stick out your tits
A flash of your knickers, a promise of warm juicy bits
Find a spin doctor to brew the potion drop by drop
The Media will build it up, build it up, buttercup
The people will hail you as a Messiah sent to deliver
Apply the balm to the pale brow to heal the dark fever
All will hail you as a saviour, a Star of stage and screen
And to top it all -– an audience with the real Queen.

To this day your poisonous legacy of hate
Threads from the Palace, to the City, to the council estate
You stoked an atmosphere of fear so malevolent
You appealed to the lump, the dung, the ignorant
The marching dockers unloaded ships coming from where?
The marching meat porters would never escape from there
Factory workers really know what makes the world go round
Wage-slaves think the treadmill is a Merry-go-round
Would they have marched for you if they had known
About your secret taste for sweet Honey Brown?
Picture this all you low-life English pigs
Enoch Powell with a Darkie as he digs and digs
( Little white boy, you talk of your England as if you wear a crown
Tell me, please, which part of England do you actually own?
Big white boy, the sun set on your empire many moons ago
Shine a light, shine a light, the East rules the world now )
The good old days … please raise your glass
To Enoch Powell swooning in a Brown Ass
“Mr. Powell, if petty England is going to the dogs
Simply because there are too many Wogs
If sunny England is going to the Darkies
Especially raining down with too many Pakis
Then why do you suck brown cock?”
When you speak of love, speak low, whisper, Enoch …
The cock may be brown but the semen is white
And, you know, white makes everything right.

When Rule Britannia sails to their lands it is Ordained
The very Thought of them coming here should be banned
We will be swamped by the alien
Too many of the Wrong Sort of Indian
( The right sort had a tight drum
Were well hung, and swung like a pendulum );
Thanks to you, Paki-bashing became a national sport
Sticks and stones, innocent people were badly hurt
A father tried to shield his nine year old son
The child took years to unravel the web you spun
( The phantom letters, old white woman’s ghost
Only white girl in her class, they were lost in the post )
Staged — caught in the act — a perfect little scandal
You played the innocent when it got too hot to handle …
Many people have analysed, excused, and explained
History has now judged, Time has apportioned the blame :
It was not racist, Mr. Powell, it was just your selfish orifice
It was a betrayal, you were unfaithful, desiring the Highest Office
You were a narcissistic poof who couldn’t see further than your knob
You betrayed the people you once loved, angling for a better job
The people remained the same, your black heart saw the change
Now, on behalf of all the fathers, I will take revenge -–
Faggot in the earth, may you never, never rest in peace
As in life, big brown worms up your boney white arse
Shout it out loud the world over
Enoch Powell was a Paki Lover!

(c) Satori Publishing, 2013.