The Jihadist

I am British, he said, just like you,
Yet spat out the words,
As though they were thorns,
That had stuck in his throat,
Or the poisoned pips of a rotten fruit,
That had lodged deep in his craw.
But he knew he wasn’t British,
That it was just a fiction,
Just a pretense, a masque,
A petty game he played,
To get his own way,
And he played it well,
The way he had been taught to play,
By the liberals and traitors amongst us,
With a howl of ‘racist’ if anyone dared
To disagree with any of his obvious lies.
He stood there in the street,
Hating everything around him,
Hating me,
Hating us,
Hating Britain,
His hatred almost visible,
Seeping out from every pore, as oil,
Pumping from a ruptured well head
Can sully an entire ocean.
He shouted ’killers‘ at the boy soldiers,
The lucky ones, who were still alive,
And with all their callow limbs still intact,
As they marched through the streets,
Returning from a war they never chose,
Luckier than others, the dead in their graves,
Of the faded headlines of yesterdays news.
I watched the police form a ring
Of truncheons, boots and fists,
To beat back the people who tried to stop
Him and his friends and their hate,
And I saw him laughing,
At me,
At you,
At us all,
Mocking the madness of our society,
That tolerated him and all of his kind.