Still not angry yet?

Say Boris,

ask yourself this,

a pound here, a shilling or two there,

is it all worth it when someone dies

when their dreams  come undone

when sleep is supposed to be the safest haven,

hey Teresa, a face that only

a lemon squeezer could produce,

with cold lips and ambition

to craw back another pound,

waste the money that was never there

you said, for the magic money tree

doesn’t exist, as you sit on more money

than God, how many

fire alarms does that buy,

Hey Michael, still believe

that the Earth’s water is not steadily creeping higher

and that the climate of change

won’t affect your beady eyes

and your sovereign state golden dinners

with port on the side

and sneer driven tabloid acceptance

that it is the fault of those

with nothing to gain

that the world is a shit storm;

speak of revolution  Amber,

you solitude lady, speak

of revolution Iain, a murderer without a knife,

sleep soundly in your beds tonight,

for there are many now who won’t,

their dreams turned to smoke and tears.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017