With yet another death in detention of an asylum seeker and criticism of Britain’s human rights from whoever, The Cannibal’s Gazette has invited Home Secretary Priti Patel to defend her policies concerning asylum seekers.
Bloody so called asylum seekers, comin’ over ‘ere expecting not to be killed. That’s entitlement that is, that’s taking the piss.
Comin’ over ‘ere, these bloody work-dodging job stealers expecting handouts, cap in hand expecting not to be killed.
Comin’ over ‘ere, swimming through busy shipping lanes with they’re baby’s strapped to they’re heads so they don’t drown and expecting not to be killed the moment they ask for a crust of bread.
Comin’ over ‘ere expecting not to be put in a prison camp, where they expect not to be abused or bullied or allowed to die through medical neglect. Comin’ over ‘ere expecting not to be deported for witnessing the death of a fellow internee so you can’t testify against your captors in court.
Comin’ over ‘ere where they expect not to be put on the first flight out to a remote lump of volcanic rock and left there, comin’ over ‘ere getting put on the first flight home and expecting not to be sat on by G4S until the last breath is squeezed from their body.
Comin’ over ‘ere to escape their burning homes, escape the bombs the blood the screams, comin’ over ‘ere to escape persecution and expecting not to be killed as soon as they clap eyes on the white cliffs.
Comin’ over ‘ere, expecting not to be scapegoated for all the country’s ills, to become the fodder for the propaganda of swivel-eyed loons, expecting not to be spat at and abused and murdered in the streets — takin the piss, it is. Who do they think we are?
Comin’ over ‘ere expecting not to be machine-gunned on the beach by Katie Hopkins with a .50 cal mounted on a tripod made of the dried bones of last week’s refugees.
Comin’ over ‘ere comin’ over ‘ere comin’ over ‘ere comin’ over ‘ere comin’ over ‘ere comin’ over ‘ere comin’ over ‘ere comin’ over ‘ere.
Tell you what — takin’ the piss, it is.
You know our trouble? We’re too soft, we are.
Text by Priti Patel
The Cannibal's Gazette 