Cape Bojador

Hide or flee all, they coming to our homes!
They are returning to the huts of peat and loam:
Today's massacre is over.
They laugh about it still, while vultures hover
Above their careless heads

Protect your wife, sister, or daughter
From the marcher's herald, their raucous laughter.
They have come from their own private Childermas
To plunder and soil every pretty lass
And forever dishonour her bed.

That is the leader; a barbarian of sorts,
Admirer but never equal to the old warlords,
Like an old wolf he leads his pack.
Had he the power befitted to his twisted mind he'd turn the skies black
And rivers would run red

Behind him march his captains, plotting their own glory.
They are sons of villagepeople, good boys gone awry.
You can hear them laugh in the woods at night
When their master's victims have given up without a fight,
And they come out to pillage the dead

And now come the men - if they may be called so -
Roaring drunk, waving their weapons for show;
Bloodshot eye, drooling lip, looking for another victim
To torture, maim and tear apart, limb by limb,
Screaming with glee as they fill him with lead.

Last but not least, strung out on a chain,
Slaves and prisoners - they've stopped feeling the pain,
Have suffered every last humiliation.
They have been forced to watch the rape of their nation
And to lap up on their knees the tears it shed.

"Come", they cry on the village square
"See our ebony trophies, princesses so fair
With their tattoos and earrings and things in their nose
Stripped of their pride, their honour and their clothes
Watch as they swallow WHATEVER they are fed"