A beer in his hand and fright in his eyes,
‘Go back where you come from and don’t say goodbye.’
He’s proud of his land and its Great British past,
‘You’re taking our jobs’, as I listen aghast.
Unemployed yes of course, who would hire this man?
‘Go straight back to India perhaps Pakistan.’
No one defends the Sri-Lankan gent,
‘We don’t want you here’, his fists look intent.
By this point I’m fuming, the dark fills my eyes,
Pulse racing, heart thumping, I stand up and rise.
‘Look at the Carlsberg you hold in your hand,
It’s from Copenhagen, no Great British brand.
Our sausages German and pizza from Italy,
Our curry from India..’ he shuffles uncomfortably.
‘Our country’s diverse and we’ve never been free,
From the lands just over the great deep blue sea.’
‘I’ll add when you talk of the Great British past,
Viking invasions just sound like a blast..
Our language a mixture from all of the world.’
He stares at his beer, his opinion unfurled.
‘At least he works hard and brings in some cash,
Better than you and your crazed balderdash.
We don’t want you here and your rude racist views,
So run along home and keep up with the news.’
A round of applause as he flees through the door,
His dignity shattered, his beer on the floor.
- Max Miller