An empty field,
Browned in the sun,
Ignored by the majority,
Until that weekend,
That jubilee of melodies and decibels,
Brought to life anew,
Once that stage is built,
The speakers began their rhythmic rants,
And the music flows through the soil,
Like water after a drought,
This patchwork of grass and tents,
It’s no longer a vacant space,
But a venue,
A place of memories and revelry,
Not to mention the firewater.
Spare a thought for the terraces,
The rows and rows of townhouses,
Laid together like crops,
Young families and single parents and renters,
Elbow to elbow,
Like sardine cans of red brick,
And like a harvest,
They are the Mans bounty,
A store shelf of useful bodies,
The working class of corn and hops,
Average Joes and Janes,
Meat for the stock market butcher,
These people,
In their streets of grey,
They weren’t born to work,
But they need work to subsist,
Captive livestock so to speak,
And the terraces provide.
On a happy day like this,
One must go on travails,
It’s expected of me,
A day like this must be favoured,
Must be taken in,
This spit of land,
We take what we can from it,
Traipsing along these island veins,
Running my fingers along white cliffs,
And across fields of green,
Enjoying it is a razor,
The sweet touch of a land adored,
The candy edge of an island of summer,
You’ll find me supping at the sight,
Clawing at the sun and licking in the swelter.
Within those halls of Oxford,
You’ll find the boys club,
No girls or plebs permitted,
A bit of an Eton mess,
A dessert reserved for the select few,
Wealth always finding a seat at the table,
Like feudalism never died,
They toast and have their cake,
And wear their pretentious bibs,
Taught all the tricks of the gentry,
Feasting as the yobs chew dust,
As the elderly expire in the cold,
These lads are bound for greatness,
Not by virtue of competence,
But by being allowed a slice of that pudding,
Like something out of a pantomime,
It’s enough to make the common man sigh,
A reason to think lowly of the highly.
I’m an ordinary British bloke,
Just trying to scrape by in my four-bed,
Back in my day,
I bought a hovel at eighteen,
Suffered little debt for my degree,
Why should the young have an easier time?
They clearly don’t work hard enough,
We never used to have mental illness,
Why not just cheer up?
Go and get some fresh air,
We’re being invaded by the displaced,
I see them on their dinghy warships,
They’re coming for the jobs we’ve retired from,
It’s true because the rag says so,
They said it on the front page,
It’s my opinion,
You can’t criticise me,
That would make you a leftie,
Full of woke,
Hating our country.
There’s a house on a river,
Tan and gothic in aesthetic,
Accompanied by a grand clock,
It’s a house of relics,
And I don’t mean antiques,
Red and blue in blood,
Sat along benches feigning opposition,
Breathing naught but dust and hot air,
They pass edicts destroying millions,
Guffawing and cheering like children,
Starvation and poverty are the gifts they offer,
The serfs shall be happy with crumbs,
They’re despicable little men,
Fat cats in silly wigs,
A deceitful gentleman’s club,
Just out for their chums,
It seems they’ve packed this flophouse out,
The house now only holds whispers of fraud,
You may ask,
Has honesty ever graced its halls?
Well there was this one Guy called Fawkes.
I heard the shots,
The cracks in the wind,
Approaching thuds and slugs,
Sounds of manmade thunder,
I felt the shrapnel pierce my lungs,
Iron colliding with rib and flesh,
White-hot and dire,
Exit-wound pending,
I felt the pavement on my face,
With my body bag colleagues,
Overseen by a man of ill intent,
Frigid eyes behind a pump action,
But I did not feel any fear,
Because it was on a silver screen,
A report of another tragedy,
On the world’s own streets,
On Plymouth’s own streets.
These fanatic pitchforks I spy,
With waving flags they jeer,
With the blaming sabre,
And toxic forked tongues,
The wrong people broken under heel,
Be they the wrong colour or creed,
You dinosaurs believe your own haughty myth,
That your borders confine some element of superiority,
To simply resent the alien,
To hate the outside,
To hide behind a tattered mask of patriotism,
You have learned nothing from history,
You live in nations built alongside immigrants sweat,
You ignore your own history for spites sake,
Spewing lies forced into your veins by dangerous men,
Your self-serving devotion is weakness,
You don’t show strength,
You show fear.
So our council of folly,
The hollow authority of our isle,
Open their mouths wide again for our daily rice,
Drenched in the sweat of labourers and nurses,
Taken as if it is their sacred right,
Our gratitude for their incompetence,
This old island is sick,
A blue scourge holds dominion,
Riddled with deaf worm-like things in suits,
With brown envelopes enveloped into their forms,
Finances put to foolish and wanton projects,
Folks held to ransom by foul ferrymen,
We weep at the tax office and county hall,
But those councilmen run out the back door cackling,
If the white cliffs begin to crumble,
And the foundations of our island splinter,
Will they still accept our sweat as thanks?
A choice,
A risk,
Like the heroic charge of the Scots Greys,
The kind of high risk gamble,
That Scotland has both thrived upon and suffered from.
Unity is stability,
But independence is in the Scottish soul,
To rule over the lochs and fens again,
To live once more as Gaels,
To stand tall like Ben Nevis.
United or independent,
Westminster or Salmond,
Neighbours or partners,
Long live the highlands,
Long live the Scottish.
In my defence God me defend…
WorldofHarley 