Written on the Occasion of the Massacre at Manchester,
Barrow, Tyneside, London, Norwich, Birmingham etc etc etc
As I lay locked down in Wetherby
There came a voice from the BBC,
And with great power it forth led me
To walk in the public space of Poesy.
I met Covid on the way
He had a mask like Boris J
Very smug he looked, yet grim;
Seven press-hounds followed him:
All were dumb; and well they might
Be in lamentable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed them human hearts to chew
Which from his crumpled suit he drew.
Next came Raab, and he had on,
Like Hancock, a protective gown;
His big tears, for he wept well,
Turned to mill-stones as they fell.
And the little voters, who
Round his feet played to and fro,
Thinking every tear a gem,
Had their brains knocked out by them.
Clothed with Brexit, as with light,
And the shadows of the night,
Like Johnson, next, Hypocrisy
On a crocodile rode by.
And many more Destructions played
In this ghastly masquerade,
All disguised, even to the eyes,
Like caring chaps and regular guys.
Last came Anarchy: he rode
On a Land Rover, splashed with blood;
He was pale even to the lips,
Like Death in the Apocalypse.
And he wore a populist crown;
And in his grasp a sceptre shone;
On his brow this mark I saw–
‘I AM CUMMINGS, KING AND LAW!’
With a pace stately and fast,
Over English land he passed,
Trampling to a mire of blood
The fascinated multitude.
And a mighty troop around,
With their trampling shook the ground,
Waving each a bloody sword,
For the service of their Lord.
And with glorious triumph, they
Rode through England proud and gay,
Drunk as with intoxication
Of the wine of foul infection.
O’er fields and towns, from sea to sea,
Passed the Pageant swift and free,
Tearing up, and trampling down;
Till they came to Durham town.
And each dweller, panic-stricken,
Felt his heart with terror sicken
Hearing the tempestuous cry
Of the triumph of Anarchy.
For with pomp to meet him came,
Clothed in arms like blood and flame,
The hired ministers, who did sing
`Thou art Cummings, Law, and King.
We have waited, weak and lone
For thy coming, Mighty One!
Our purses are empty, our swords are cold,
Give us glory, and blood, and gold.’
And Anarchy, the Bojo con,
Bowed and grinned to every one,
As well as if his education
Had cost ten millions to the nation.
For he knew the Palaces
Of our Kings were rightly his;
His the sceptre, crown, and globe,
And the gold-inwoven robe.
When one fled past, a maniac maid,
And her name was May, she said:
But she looked more like Threadbare,
And she cried out in the air:
‘He has had child after child,
And the dust of neglect is piled
Over every one but Wilfie —
Misery, oh, Misery!
Men of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of the Brexit story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
Hopes of her, and one another;
Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number,
Wrestle the muggers to earth like dew
Which in contact had fallen on you —
Ye are fighters— they are few.’
Refer to: Apr 2020 – Sermons in stones
With apologies to Shelley. This is considerably shorter than his 1832 original, but attention spans are shorter now – we always have to ‘Move on’.
Wow! This is amazing! You need to send it for publication in the press. Is each verse based on one from the Shelley poem? It’s a great point of reference. Love the blend of dark humour and high seriousness. Like to hear you read it with the rhythms.
Yes my attention span was able to embrace your version – but not Shelley’s !
Indeed each verse is based on Shelley’s with few changes – some not changed at all
Some of the the topical references in this are already fading, but we didn’t know at the time that Johnson and his team were repeatedly breaking their own lockdown laws.