The Minority Race On Earth



We’re eight percent, there’s nothing more,
That Europe has to give,
It’s five-to-midnight for our race,
We only wish to live;
Upon this earth as others do,
We’ve given much, we are but few,
If we’re to die then you must too,
There’s not much else to do.

We’re eight percent, you’re many,
Ours is the stricken realm,
You stand to kill the golden goose,
Your numbers overwhelm,
If we’re to die then what of you,
Night will fall if dark winds blew,
O’er folk who gave their all.

Every soul of other race,
You reaped what we have sown,
Why take away your Europe folk,
Through whom our world has grown,
There’s not a single one of you,
Who never reaped our corn;
If Europe’s folk should disappear,
The world must know no dawn.
Mike Walsh

Also read:

A White Racial Crisis


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