Ding, dong, the bells rang out
And sirens wailed as cars sped by
With MPs anxious all to spout
Proud eulogies to she whose dying
Broke the mould that shaped this land
A Britain blitzed and bristling
Tenacious hold of ringed hand
Conducting as her choirs sing
But praises in her final hour
When all about her’d scoffed in doubt
A woman might ascend to power
To rule their classes, well-endowed
Through echelons of history
Such ilk, ill-favoured (and less-liked)
Set braver face than enemy
And damned the rest to build a dyke
For old and loyal as they’d seem
Support has grown in recent years
The bad old days are here again
No sum may yet assuage our fears
What party rages through the night
As shades and lines are thinly drawn
All hail the dying of the light!
Now bow before the bitter dawn
A country left to go hang, its policies blowing in the wind like so many dead leaves, rolling across the bloated corpses of those yet clutching the reins of power in their vice-like grip of death. The fetid air issuing from their purple cheeks only serving to stir up a small cyclone, spewing banknotes in a circle to help scatter the blame far and wide, sowing discord and discontent unevenly across the land, oozing mistrust and perverting the course of the rivers of truth to ensure every citizen has their rightful opportunity to know the bitter taste of fear.
Is this my land of plenty? My Jerusalem? This green and pleasant land has become a granite-grey terrain, a place of howling apes in media zoos. Where once the sun shone down, reflected in the shimmering seas and rivers, upon the citizens at work, now we see, but dark skies and troubled waters, from the defeated couch-potato throne of the unemployed. We gaze with disinterest at the hopeless perspectives issuing forth from the hi-tech plastic box in the corner. We mark the passing of time, not by the seasons, or the light of the stars, but by counting the unnatural, tallying the vanishing wrinkles on each ‘celebrity’ face, and we wonder… What is to become of us now?
To those without an education, those who yet remain our hope for a future we daily pray will never come, please know we are truly sorry – sorry that your future will be our present and that you, in your untrained ignorance, may not know enough to help us when it comes our turn, or that you, remembering past slights, may snub our pleas for aid in our dotage.
To those without a job, those who yet remain our hope for the future of the welfare state, please know that we are truly sorry – sorry that we shall never enjoy the fruits of your labours and that you will never know the peace of retirement, of rest after a good day’s work.
To those without their health, those who would be well, but for the want of a penny to pay the person to sweep the floor of the operating theatre, a penny that was pinched for a politician’s pocket-lining, please know that we are truly sorry – sorry that you will not live to see tomorrow and pay the new taxes that it brings to fund the paper improvements we will make to a service no one may use for it’s rightful purpose, but those who pay for the privilege of avoiding the laws and lists of the land.
To those without a pension, those who fought for their future, our present, who elected us and believed in our pompous, empty promises, please know we are truly sorry – sorry that those days will never come again, that more of you did not lay down your lives in glorious sacrifice for us to cry crocodile tears of hypocrisy and lay cheap paper flowers upon a slab of rock to honour the memory of the young, the foolish.
To all those society forgot, please know we are truly sorry. Now please go about your business and stop bothering us. After all, you have no one to blame, but yourselves.
The frostbitten urban landscape equals poetry for the unequal.
A land of opportunity, of quick fixes and slow deaths.
Coated in slogans, we make our way through the world,
Cushioned from the harsh blows we are dealt by our velour-clad thighs,
Our Nike, our Burberry, Tommy Hilfiger.
Waiting around in the cold for a better future,
Watching hope fade away, going up with the smoke rings we blow.
Banded together, we brothers and sisters, by a common goal
It is not our apathy that sets us apart from society,
But society’s abdication of responsibility towards us.
And we wait, some in hope, some in fear,
Some having lost the will to fight, some only steadfast with faith in failure.
Whether our own, or that of others on our behalf.
It’s all one to us, marching without a banner, fed on an over-rich diet of empty words,
Our minds undernourished by rhetoric, and our hearts raw and bleeding.
Our ranks swelling with every step, every door closed to us, other avenues barred,
We gather together in a column, with low morale and high birth rates,
We shall yet overcome, but what will we win?
For to conquer the world is not enough. One must also learn to live in it.