Go back to your country, you're not needed here,
Go back to your country, to whatever desert you live in fear,
Go back to your country.
But this is my home.
No, your people are useless, you spread disease where you roam.
No, you belong in a desert, you'll never be British,
No, your people are shrinking, your future is finished.
But none of this is true.
One in five NHS staff come from overseas,
Yet somehow, we 'spread disease'?
We're born in the UK,
Yet told to return to the sand.
Our Black population rises,
But hatred refuses to understand.
They shout their myths louder than the facts we can prove,
2.1% to 4.0%, we're here, we grow, we move.
Mohamed Salah, record breaker, most goal contributions in a season,
Egyptian Muslim. Is excellence treason?
Benjamin Zephaniah, a poet, teacher, Jamaican-British, bold and lyrical,
So, will you scream "Go back!" at him too? Or call his brilliance criminal?
Vikings, Celts, Saxons, Romans, who came?
Were they immigrants and invaders, or just part of Britain's name?
This island is one big cooking pot,
Layered histories, blended skin.
You tell me to go back, but this country lives in my blood, I'm staying in.
