| They want and get their country back
|
| And start to build a little shack
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| Up in the woods, along the track
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| Away from all that they have borne
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| Away from foreigners and towns
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| Away from mortarboards and gowns
|
| They scratch a living from the soil
|
| In cabin porn
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| They grow a tree, they start a blog
|
| They milk the pig, they kill the dog
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| For weeks and weeks they see no-one
|
| They are so meek their face is gone
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| They call themselves «the frozen ones»
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| And they could soon be born again
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| Dug up like unexploded bombs
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| In cabin porn
|
| They’re total cocks, they’re all the same
|
| With their apocalyptic brains
|
| They’ve turned their backs on urban life
|
| The multi-culti dream has gone
|
| Don’t call them trash or insular
|
| They may be rash, they may be poor
|
| But we will all be islanders in cabin porn
|
| They write a pungent little screed against modernity
|
| A manifesto, so it seems, against basic literacy
|
| They cannot use apostrophes, they cannot spell «hypocrisy»
|
| Their manifesto goes unread by everyone except God
|
| They think that man was not designed
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| To live with men with different minds
|
| They think the world will come to them
|
| They plan hide and bide their time
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| It starts to rain, they wait for dawn
|
| They know the rest will be along
|
| The day the pure embrace the lure of cabin porn
|
| They want and get their country back
|
| And start to build their little shack
|
| Away from experts and from blacks
|
| In cabin porn |