When you kneel down to feed the poor
they've got to have your mother’s eyes,
your father’s chin. Spurn, curse the Moor.
Muhammad, scornful to the core,
dreams of a Euro Paradise
when you kneel down to feed the poor.
Stupidity is not a cure.
Look at the anger in their eyes,
hate in their mouths. Spurn, curse the Moor.
The haughty Mullah can say more,
on the blond beach, a lord of flies,
when you kneel down to feed the poor.
Lock the front gate and bolt the door;
defend your blood; pray to the skies,
to Mars or Thor. Spurn, curse the Moor.
Love not thy foe, defiant, sure,
you have been fed a pack of lies.
When you kneel down to feed the poor
think of your own. Spurn, curse the Moor.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem