Remember a soldier who served his country, remember his sacrifice, remember the manner in which he was murdered by Muslims.  Remember the various Muslim groups who after Drummer Rigby’s killing spoke words of sorrow, but with forked tongues, remember our politicians who lied and said: ‘this murder was nothing to do with Islam.

Remember the fake ‘revenge’ attacks, most likely carried out by Muslims themselves, in places like Muswell Hill, Birmingham and Redditch, remember the police arresting 85 year old women for expressing negative feelings towards Islam.  Remember who’s side our politicians and police showed they were on, and how you felt when you realised that they were not on yours or your country’s side.

Do not let the passage of time dampen your anger about this killing and the multitude of other crimes inspired by Islam, both here in Britain and overseas.  Do not continue to believe the lies of the BBC when they promote Islam and say that it is a ‘religion of peace’.

Do not let Drummer Rigby’s death be in vain.  Resolve to never surrender to Islamic fascism even if such surrender is the choice of our treasonous politicians.  The fight will be hard, but the result and the cost of not fighting will be harder.

There should be a dignified silence for Drummer Rigby today, but after that there must be loud and righteous anger at what is happening.

For The Fallen – By Laurence Binyon

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.