Have you heard the rumour going round?
They say that all these truck attacks we get,
these elbow-scattering bomb-blasts that abound,
these prawns or pawns that (quote) “slip through the net”,
that (quote) “were not believed to be a threat”,
are waved through by the secret-service line,
are prodded forward so the people whine,
“Just save us from this! Do what you must do!
Destroy our freedoms, that’s completely fine!”
Don’t worry though. It’s probably not true.
It’s probably just lamppost-lickers crowned
with tin-foil hats who say this, so don’t fret.
No-one you know is six feet underground,
it’s not your children getting blown up yet,
so tell yourself you’re brave, pretend that sweat
is not cascading down your faltering spine
while hurtling for your life down Platform Nine
with pregnant women crushed beneath your shoe.
They say all this is part of a design.
Don’t worry though. It’s probably not true.
They say all these invasions that confound
Europa in a moral pirouette,
to make her think submission is profound
in one huge game of Arabic roulette,
are just to render her a marionette,
a snake-faced banker’s conquered concubine
too weak to stop her raving, sick decline
into a fevered blob of hullabaloo
who it’ll take five seconds to confine.
Don’t worry though. It’s probably not true.
The Prince of Darkness with his serpentine
and grasping slaves, they say, will soon outshine
freedom, democracy and justice too,
reducing all things joyous and divine
down to his glaring, shackling, global shrine.
Don’t worry though. It’s probably not true.
