Table of Contents
You sit on the bones of a stolen throne,
A castle of corpses, a kingdom of stone.
Blood-soaked soil and history’s remorse,
Yet you puff your chest, for better or worse.
Your ancestors, feral, foaming with fright,
Fled from their shitholes in dead of night.
Rapists and slavers with Bible in hand,
Burning and butchering their way through the land.
You howled at the moon and gutted the earth,
Stamped your boots on the place of their birth.
Called it your own, called it “divine” —
But your DNA is rooted in some stolen bovine.
Did you sculpt the rivers? Carve out the seas?
Forge the mountains or plant the trees?
No, you just squatted, claimed and declared,
Like a rat in a pantry, greedy and scared.
With tasteless art and culture thin,
A parody of what could have been.
Drunk on delusion, high on despair,
Patting your back with a slave-owner’s glare.
So tell me again, with pompous pride,
How the land is yours, and the past has died.
How the echoes don’t wail, how the ground doesn’t groan,
How the ghosts of the slaughtered don’t claim what they own.
Your flag is a rag, your anthem’s a joke,
A hymn for the damned, a prayer sung in smoke.
A land built on screams, yet you sing it’s so free —
But freedom for who? Well, mostly not me.
