Summoning the Furies
More a prayer than a prediction, unfortunately…
Revolution isn’t born of want, but need.
The seed, tossed across a fallow field
will yield such bitter crops
and stop forever the economic growth
of both the new elite and banks.
For common man needs common ground,
a level plain to meet on.
Not o’er the floor of Parliament;
nor the playing fields of Eton.
Just somewhere standing eye to eye.
So bit by bit the fuse is lit.
We’re sitting pretty, say the wits of Whitehall and the City.
And tempers fray, as day on day,
an anger stirs the masses; like asses in an Aesop tale
they recognise this bestial state and rise.
Huddled for safety in their Ivory Tower,
The Flower of British society,
in such an hour of need, concede some minor points.
And feed upon the vanity that at a stroke,
the smoke and mirrors act will put the fire out.
Conflagration is not so easy to contain;
disdain but fuels the furnace of revolt.
So needs unmet are swiftly set at wants –
demands to have all power in our hands.
that we, in turn, should be the new elite.