Walk with me down Nigel Farage street
and let’s pound the street like a fascists flag.
We’ll pass the bunting of a slaughtered pig
then you will look offended and I’ll say
token British things to make you feel better like
Mum said you’re lovely for an Indian and still
lovely when I said you’re Pakistani.
Walk with me through minarets of snow and
we’ll worship the sunset on Imperial Road then
place a bet at the bookies where hope falls with
the underdog but we’ll both lose together
skulking off with our winnings of free reggae
past Jagienka’s house muralled in street art,
these streets bleed to life each night you said.