England’s Shame

by Paul Martin Freeman (November 2025)

—
—
On the anniversary of 7/7, I asked someone who was operationally very senior in counter terrorism, both nationally and internationally: “How bad is the Islamist threat today compared to July 2005?”

“The truth is the threat has grown inexorably,” he replied. “Perversely, the reason why there are no real terror attacks now is because we are better at monitoring them since the London attack, but also because they are getting what they want. We are where they want us to be. We have their religion enshrined outside of UK law and their community leaders have got the police under control. They are wily; when they see do-gooders they walk all over them. Like the scorpion and the frog it is what they do. The numbers are now so huge that our own government has sleepwalked into a nightmare of extraordinary proportions. They are building while we are continually lying to ourselves.”
–
–
–
Oh woe is England now the foe is here
And threatens all our green and pleasant land.
That foe whose name we never name from fear
Arrives each day on Kent and Sussex sand.
–
That foe that once we knew to keep at bay;
Whose threat to all we were we understood,
We welcome now, inviting him to stay
In fancy hotels in the neighbourhood.
–
That foe who comes without a piece of paper,
Or document that tells you where he’s from,
Then plots to send your pieces to your Maker
As never does he come without a bomb.
–
That foe that sees our girls as easy meat,
And anyone alive as his to kill,
Is next on benefits across the street
While those he wants to slaughter foot the bill.
–
That foe who’s never short of cutlery
As always carries with him copious knives
Is shortly after housed in luxury
Together with his kids and copious wives.
–
That foe that claims he’s just a hapless victim
While sizing up your unprotected throat,
And even as you dare not contradict him
Some friends of his are scrambling off the boat.
–
That foe who’ll always stand for integration
And multicultural mantras will repeat,
But really means your kind’s annihilation
As always it’s for him a one-way street.
–
That foe accusing you of what he’s guilty,
For pleasure turning truth upon its head,
Who takes what’s good and pure and makes it filthy
And substitutes perversity instead.
–
That foe that kills a child and calls it honour,
And proudly claims he wipes away disgrace,
Yet works such loathsome wickedness upon her
As never could a victim more debase.
–
That foe whose cruel creed despises you,
But also has him carefully hide his hand,
Whose cunning constantly surprises you
As quite beyond your power to understand.
–
That foe that understands you, though, completely;
Knows where you’re coming from and what you think;
Who’s studied you his whole career discreetly;
Who’s mapped your every weakness, every chink.
–
That foe who knows your mind and got your measure;
Knows where your buttons are and which to press;
Knows all about those principles you treasure:
The empathy and fairness you profess.
–
That foe pretending he’s the same as you
And only fighting just to get what’s fair,
Who mines your buried hate for you-know-who
To get you to delude yourself you care.
–
That foe behind your back that scoffs he hates you,
Then smiling sweetly offers you his hand,
Who’s thinking all the while of what awaits you
That now he’s got you where he’s always planned.
–
That foe the incarnation of the Devil
Who hides from men inside the frozen ground,
Delighting in his secret world to revel
Where cruelty and death alone abound.
–
That foe that watches you inside your head,
In hiding in your thoughts since time began,
To God and every kind of kindness dead,
Destroying where he goes and where he can.
–
That foe in anguish in his lonely world,
Not caring whether killing or being killed:
A vortex of malignant envy whirled;
A hollowness that never could be filled.
–
That foe that hates himself as much as you,
For all of him is hatred and despair;
But most of all he hates the hated Jew
Whose faithfulness to God he cannot bear.
–
That evil sprite who rides the endless night,
Possessed of every demon, jinn and spell;
That bane upon humanity, that blight,
That creature from the blackest bowels of Hell.
–
That foe you dare not ever criticise
Unless you want policemen at your door;
So better not believe your lying eyes
And just forget why England fought the War.
–
But if you do, you join a private club
Of clowns with cold assassins on their heels
In hot pursuit at publisher’s and pub,
Unpitying and dead to all appeals.
–
For even though a few obscure cartoons,
Or obscurantist novel few will read,
Some cartoon character from Looney Tunes
Will come for you, commanded by that creed.
–
In spite of all, though, no one says a word,
Or notes how on our souls the fear impacts,
When sobbing children need to go unheard
Lest God forbid we’re forced to face the facts.
–
A primal fear whose name is never spoken,
Depriving us of freedom’s air to breathe,
That makes us sad and feel our country’s broken
And all that’s left for us is just to grieve.
–
A horrid fear to which we can’t admit
Or realise our world has gone awry;
Instead, we find that all must now submit
And better not to ask the reason why.
–
And so we’re taught it’s all our country’s fault,
And every night the lies are on the news;
And then there’s that demonic somersault:
It’s just because of those infernal Jews.
–
Or else we’re told that murderous attacks
Are merely part of normal modern life,
So not to worry then about those packs
When travelling on the train with kids and wife.
–
Or maybe it’s just really mental illness;
And maybe also, too, a broken heart;
And maybe we should beg his kind forgiveness
Before he blows the rest of us apart.
–
Yes, all we have to do is make him love us,
Embracing him with self-abasing arms,
Acknowledging his rightful place above us
With all his backward tribalistic charms.
–
But is this not a dismal servitude,
This crass denial in which we’re sinking fast?
This cowardly inglorious dhimmitude
Which shames and shames and shames our English past?
–
A past to make an ancient nation proud:
A thousand years of warlike triumphs unfurled:
A tale of giants, battered but unbowed,
Of lions who stood defiant against the world.
–
A tale of heroes battling every tyrant
Within these English shores and far abroad;
Of leadership refusing to be silent,
Prepared to draw again the English sword.
–
When was it then that some of us forgot
What England was and even what we were
That now this crop of politicians plot
And to the foe of all we are defer?
–

Table of Contents