Time to wake from Torpor into the reality of the great swindle.

Yesterday, and Yesterday and Yesterday

seeping tendrils into our nightmares,

Until the last stench of foul breath

Has cleared the nation of its torpor

And we wake into a bright sunny upland

Of poppy meadows and skylarks.

A tale of wicked greed, slithering into the pockets of paupers,

Of sleazy fingers, fingering the slime of opportunity,

Of vile corruption defiling all it touches with the maggoty breath

Of ill-gotten power.

Out out damn spot! Out I say!—One, two. Why, then, ’tis time to do ’t. Hell is murky!

Hell is murky indeed!

Full of the souls of rancid liars, thieves and verminous profiteering popinjays, gluttonous rascals and masquerading clowns!

Leave a Reply