Peterloo, the Jarrow marchers,
typhoid, Tyburn, People’s Charters,
endless jibing from the rich
once knit us in united stitch.
We stood in the indicted air
and tens of thousands gathered where
our folk were browsing for a chance
to wake from Empire’s smacked-out trance
on gassed and shellfired poppy fields,
on muddy ground, with blood-strewn shields,
but failure found us, we were captured
in the end by Blair and Thatcher.
Now the trend’s to fast unravel
all that stitching as our gravel
voices bitching from behind
all brim with hate for our own kind
in symphonies of petty brawling.
Lo! How the powerless are falling!
With our hour missed, forgotten,
with our spirit twisted, rotten,
passive unresisting tongues
sing “All for one and all for one!”
and “All for sun and stars and mirrors,
images of ladykillers,
masks and dreams of shadiness!”
as though the joy of life is this,
as though our choice is bulging wide
and bursting at each squashed-in side.
Well, curse the drink (and broken glasses)
of the malfunctioning classes!
Send our callous masters crawling
and stop the powerless from falling!
Guide your rowdiness toward
the current system of reward,
the sea of misty bullshit-spews
(where cellulite is sold as news)
that thinks the right to publish prose
that chokes with bingo, status quos
and blokes in golden football shorts
is why we trashed Herr Hitler’s ports.
Oh, somewhere brash and rich and southern
sits Britannia in her coven,
mitts both empty, nude except for
holographic crown and sceptre,
heart all traffic, gridlocked, calling:
Lo! How the powerless are falling!
Snip those sour weeds entwined
around the signposts of the mind,
that gagged and blind host to the plumes
of poison beamed into your rooms.
Rise up in streams of proud contempt
for all the labyrinths they’ve dreamt
to strand us babbling on a moor,
to dump us drowning on a shore,
to keep us down and neon-scented,
nylon-flavoured, regimented.
Rise, you slaves, and strike them dead,
just strike at last, paint England red
and catch the bastards while they’re stalling
and stop the powerless from falling!
Don’t kowtow to this transparent
throttling of your strength and talent,
bottling up those vast desires.
Think how our forebears lit the fires,
those crowds of toiling common folk
who overthrew the normal yoke
when Peterloo, the Jarrow marchers,
typhoid, Tyburn, People’s Charters,
endless jibing from the rich
once knit us in united stitch.
We stood in the indicted air
and tens of thousands gathered where
our folk were browsing for a chance
to wake from Empire’s smacked-out trance
on gassed and shellfired poppy fields,
on muddy ground, with blood-strewn shields,
but failure found us, we were captured
in the end by Blair and Thatcher.
Now the trend’s to fast unravel
all that stitching as our gravel
voices bitching from behind
all brim with hate for our own kind
in symphonies of petty brawling.
Lo! How the powerless are falling!
