a voice crying in the wilderness
i cry for the people who are crying
in the corridors betwixt this life and another
i cry for their indignity and our shame
when those responsible show no remorse
it’s the great game
the north west frontier all over again
stop the people at the gates
of their private estates
let the hoi polloi grow obese
from eating tomorrow’s cake
there is no anaesthetic in their manifesto
that will drug us along this corridor
between one caste and another recast
by their gilded words
the canute of their midas tide has turned
they are to be drowned in the hessian sack
at the polling booth and cast adrift
their bloating stench is appalling
i will not cry for them that did this
for when we are on the edge of the abyss
the sunlit uplands are shrouded in mist
yet the sun of our determination will burn
and it will burn their clouds away
it will burn the stubble of their fallow fields
we will plant anew
so never dry those tears
for the are watering the future
of our seeds
but the days to the harvest are long
‘now this is not the end.
it is not even the beginning of the end.
but it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.’
so pick up your beds and vote
this is our final chance
the scars are screaming enough!
but there is time enough for balm
now is the time to fight
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