Ian Smith: 1919–2007

“Smith has been utterly vindicated.” —Rian Malan

The last great Englishman Is dead, and fuck who disagrees. He once said to Henry Kissinger, “Is there no honor in the world Any more?” This man whose face Was half shot off in the RAF. “No,” replied good Henry, and Went on to fuck him. And of course His nation—now a rotting ruin. This small farmer, this militarist, This pissant little pseudo-country, England’s chopped and pickled toe, Weird ascendancy of the Adidas age. The gods themselves contend in vain! Still every harvest year is bitter. The world has never stopped burning. The revolutions cook and simmer, They stroke their ire, they brood And stir among the young, flexing The bone returning in their fist. They are all acts of the strong Upon the weak. Believe none. Harold Macmillan to the contrary, Any bear may shit in any woods And every pope is Catholic, and wind Of change will often bring the plague. And one day we will either be Hacked to death in our own beds, Or some similar and nasty thing, Or Ian Smith, and Enoch Powell, And even our own Tailgunner Joe, Will have another life in bronze. But do you know us? I’m not sure We have been introduced. We are The neo-McCarthyists. Our motto: This time, we’ll finish the job. We have no chance of winning, but We’re not at least afraid to try. Our saint is Julian the Apostate, Our modal prince is Castlereagh, Our favorite statesman died today.