Take down your signs form the previous war,
the statues of men, whom you adore.
Your flag is waving through the mud,
but you claim it’s honor, you claim it’s blood.
The generals are dead, the battles’ lost,
but still, it’s others who pay your cost
as we mend the decay in our public space.
You splinter to pieces - you master race.
Take down your signs from the wars before
your clouded cause - your reasons for.
It’s an albatross around your neck
to carry the burden of being oppressed.
But we all see the red you hide
you relics of the countryside.