Leader comment: A terrible poetry is born
while the raucous clamours lengthen
reaching towards the fateful morn
when those that can be bothered
will go to mark their cross
directing the nation’s destiny
either slicing through union’s knot
or keeping it firmly tethered.
That day of agony is yet to dawn
and yet there are no barricades to man,
no machine gun bullets to brave
or martyrs all must mourn
only the rattle of money;
choose this to be rich
or that to be poor
soothsayers on either side wail
while the people vainly seek some honey
they are told of barrels of oil
billions of them out there
meaning mounds of cash here
or maybe that’s just a foil
because those terrible banks
have consumed the people’s credit
leaving only unfillable wells of debt.
In this heaving herd of hawkers
There are no inspiring banners
only the fluttering of pound notes
which might be sterling or scotch
Hardly the stuff of romance
or sacrifice, which is why
a terrible poetry is born
(With heartfelt apologies to WB Yeats, proper poets, and poetry-lovers everywhere.)