It was a corridor to the Woodwork class
Each Wednesday in nineteen seventy three
Four Aryan youths met there en masse
To sort out those they didn't want to be
Planks of wood lay around the place
They'd select from those they'd see
And smash the wood across their face
Sometimes it was me
I never cried and I'd never speak
Most of us never did
Meant they could do it every single week
To every wog, queer and yid
Where are they now forty years on?
Bankers, doctors, bin men, teachers?
Wonder if they regret what they had done
Or if they became hate preachers.