There is no one in the stained glass window,
Nothing real enough to drag us out the dirt,
In your presence I wear a suit of nails,
Your existence, a Wasp inside my shirt.

I long for the waves to be strong enough
To rip your filth from our shore
There are no good words for the likes of you
Introduced us to hate, taught us to abhor.

An insult to those we’ve loved and lost,
When, eventually, you go, what kind of tears will be shed?
Because truth be told if you’re a ***** whilst alive
You're still a ***** when you’re dead.