turn again
i bleat like a spring lamb
at the gathering clouds
their winds of words
chopped like mint sauce
are they not the staple diet
of the slaughterhouse
the buttercups and daisies
watch on helpless as
the mob’s grass is fertilised
and the lamb’s grow fat
carried by the tumbrel of their reading
helpless in the town square
we point out into their laughter
the grim reaper is you
as they wrap their blood pieces
in the newspapers on the spike
they are in the shit for
all the good newspapers
are behind the pipe torn into squares
they have had their chips
wrapped in their staple diet
history shouts season
season of change
the dusty relic of a good shepherd
doesn’t seem so amiss
we feel that indelible dirge
that this is the only hope we have
look them in insistent’s eye
vote for volte face
turn again Dick Whittington
turn again
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