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!