They come 'ere taking our jobs

A contribution to the debate on immigration

They come 'ere taking our jobs
With their funny food
And their bad attitude
And their gangs of drunken yobs.

They come ere
With the their strange ways, strange schools
Closed communities, their own rules.
Some say they're cool
And we should leave them alone
I say London's full
Country whitey go home.

They come 'ere taking our jobs
Talking odd
Clogging up our hospitals
And clogging up our roads
Breaching peace in parks
In self-important tones
Pushing up the house prices
But one thing I've never known
Why they don't stick to their devices
In the counties they call home.

Don't get me wrong
Heaven's be foresaken
This misplaced tribal ignorance
Ain't based on pigmentation
We've always had the Irish
The Germans and the Jews
And French and Dutch and Spanish
More than one or two
And Euston takes the Scotsmen
But Paddington should close
Cos London's full of country feet
Better walking country roads.

Don't get me wrong
Heaven's be foresaken
This ain't straight xenophobia
We still need immigration
A cornucopia metropolis
Of each and every nation
Rich as ancient Thebes
New York or Los Angeles
Or the prime of Rome
They ain't coming to your village
If it bothers you go home.

Why make space for bumpkins
When we can tap the global talent pool
Why clog up our economy
With web-foot, hair-lip fools.
We could take one or two
On a quota if they're of use
And house a case or two
Of institutional abuse.
We know what they're like afterall.

Now if they come 'ere and was humble
And stuck to cleaning floors
And worked only in the small hours
So that they could be ignored
I wouldn't grumble or begrudge
Just that odd one or two
But on the farms the fruit needs picking
So they should stay and work their due.

So spare us all you stiff-necked toffs
With prattling myopic aires
Our hands are better washed
We can tend our own affairs
So take the Queen and go tend the sheep
And take the parliament to Birmingham
Westminster we'll keep.

So all of you who don't know
Who where the weavers of the wool
Who built the railway and roads
And staff the hospitals
All of you who don't know
What makes a modern Rome
There's no place for you 'ere
You might as well go home
And leave the jobs to Londoners
And the best the world can send
There are green and pleasant lands
That you should stay and tend.

Sights across the city prove
What makes a modern Rome
And if you can't see how tide moves
Like Canute you'll lie in foam
So go back to the hills
So the chickens aren't alone
There's no place for you 'ere
Country boy go home.