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Lyrics:

[Verse 1: Sing with a dry, articulate, narrative folk style, like a storyteller in a pub. Voice: mature, slightly gritty, male or female. Clean audio.]
The rain it fell on London town, on banners black and red,
A crowd had come from shire and city, something must be said!
They’d left their keyboards and their screens to stand upon the street,
To fight the war on "wokeness" and admit a sure defeat.

[Chorus: Full, energetic gang vocals. Raucous and sing-along, like a pub crowd. Slightly drunken, ironic energy.]
Oh, give me free speech, loud and true, to say what I hold dear!
But if you answer back to me, then I shall never hear.
You cannot call me what I am, it causes me such pain,
My right to offend is sacred, your right to complain is vain.

[Verse 2: Character Voice. Sing in a higher, pinched, and indignant tone. Like an annoyed, tweedy academic.]
"Let me call a spade a spade!" a man in tweed did cry,
(He meant a word much older, one he’s too ashamed to try).
"I should not have to face a consequence or lose my precious job!
For spreading lies about your kind, you entitled mob!"

[Chorus: Full, energetic gang vocals again. Even more energy than before.]
Oh, give me free speech, loud and true, to say what I hold dear!
But if you answer back to me, then I shall never hear.
You cannot call me what I am, it causes me such pain,
My right to offend is sacred, your right to complain is vain.

[Bridge: Spoken Word, not sung. Flustered, offended, sputtering with hypocrisy. Music drops to a tense, quiet drone.]
What’s that you call me? A fascist? Now that’s a nasty word!
It’s hateful and it’s hurtful, have you no shame, have you not heard?
That my feelings are the important ones upon this soggy day,
So take your facts and logic and just go away!

[Verse 3: Return to the main narrator's dry, storytelling style, a touch wearier.]
They march for liberty, they say, their voices must be free,
To punch down on the vulnerable for all the world to see.
They long for a past that never was, where no one talked back,
Where a cruel word was just a joke, a diplomatic crack.

[Chorus: Final chorus. Full gang vocals, maximum energy and raucousness, then a sharp cut.]
Oh, give me free speech, loud and true, to say what I hold dear!
But if you answer back to me, then I shall never hear.
You cannot call me what I am, it causes me such pain,
My right to offend is sacred, your right to complain is vain.

[Outro: Spoken, dry, comedic timing. Deadpan. Complete silence after the last word.]
Yeah... free speech for me, but not for thee. Now, who's for a pint? It's bloody freezing out here.

Words: 0 | Characters: 0

The March of the Thin-Skinned

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