People rushing everywhere,
On the highways, in my head,
All the things the papers said
Are all coming true
Say something so many times
It will make the news headlines
Prophecy created
And fulfilled by you
Oh, Mr. Writer, I blame you.
You say the war in going to come
Then you tell them how it's done
Tell them how to make the bomb
Then that's what they do
Tell them where they can hide
Inform them of how many died
Then tell them law is on their side
And how to sue.
Oh, Mr. Writer, I blame you.
Say you're speaking for the people
Then you coat your words with treacle
Burn the Mosque, the Church the steeple
Run out the Jew
Make your god the column inch
Turn the knife until we flinch
Then send out a mob to lynch
And enjoy the view
Oh, Mr. Writer, I blame you
Justify celebrity
Panic the economy
Bring the high street to its knees
Now we're in a stew
Petitioning for everything
You can make those jailbirds sing
Or call them guilty on a whim
Without a clue
Oh, Mr. Writer, I blame you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem