Albinos in the market square
hawking white-washed dirges to each others

stirred in muddled pox puree
bedevilled as their blanched privilege suffers

cause in reality sound and sure
real deal shows they nowt but finks from gutters

oh they wail and bawl in seizure
in trance the weak cowardly banshees discovers

they are drunk nits without tenure
in body spirit or soul they are husks without colours

so come out from caves and pasture
the ruddy sheep are you baa baa baaing in your pretend culture
we can see your pain for sure