Deep into the New American Century
whose cannons glare at Persepolis,
Tiananmen Square and the Kremlin,
grinning wolves with their paws on the treasury
drag forward a conga-line populace
like the Pied Piper of Hamelin,
bashing a tambourine and accordion
called the BBC and the Guardian.
Along a narrow strip of humanity
between the proles and the Outer Party
I crouch as dogma whizzes past
in voices that are proud and haughty.
“Forget your roots, ignore your culture!
Be like us, a globalist
marching into a rainbow future!”
I watch their rows and rows and rows of soldiers,
their cheeks all stuffed with spoonfed facts,
huge keys rotating on their backs.
