‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the House
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The Kippers were watching the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nigel so soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
With no chance of sex ed in their little heads.
And Mark in his ‘kerchief, and Doug in his cap,
Had settled their brains for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of midday to objects below,
When, what in the world should I suddenly find,
But a man on a tank, who was out of his mind.
With a fag in one hand, in the other a beer
St Nige looked around with some kind of a leer
He looked this way and that as though searching around
For something he wanted, some thing to be found
St Nige doesn’t care if you’re naughty or nice
He cares if you cook with too much foreign spice
If your daddy or mummy came from the wrong place
If your accent is strange, or you have the wrong face
He has gifts for rich Brits, but for migrants the boot
And for everyone else just more hardship and soot
He’ll travel the land checking homes all around
If he sees a strange face, or hears a strange sound
Then it’s time to repatriate, quick as a flash
To send them all ‘home’, with a dash, dash, dash, dash
No matter how nice, no matter how good
There’s no place for them in his neighbourhood
St Nige has no sleigh, and no fine reindeer
But he does have his tank, and his fag and his beer
And behind him are mobs, all filled up with hype
He dog-whistles loudly and calls them by type:
“Come bigots, come racists
Come Englanders Little
Join our people’s army
Be ready for battle
Come lost and afraid
We’ve got someone to blame
It’s the immigrants’ fault
Let’s show them our flame.”
The BNP, EDL and Britain First
Oh, all Britain’s racists, they gather, the worst
To support the great Nigel, their hero and saint
You’d better watch out, their hearts are not faint
Saint Nigel looked up and he flashed me a smile
A smile more befitting a dread crocodile
He winked and he grinned and I knew what he meant
A message it was, a message he sent.
“Happy Christmas to all – if you’re British and rich
And for everyone else, well life is a bitch.”