Friday, 7 September 2012

The golden up fields...

They give you just enough
To keep your limbs from failing
So ye can work another shift
And hear your heart a wailing.

Tis murder I tell thee,
Nothing short of a slaughter
To work away yer life
To their ungodly laughter.

And yet they live well fed
In resplendent girth
Residing in shining palaces
While ye in squalid dearth.

Our wails and our bereavements
Are but his stepping stones of plunder
And his boots are covered in the blood
Of the disabled he’s put six feet under.

And children left to fend
For themselves beyond his sight
Live each rotten abandoned day
Questioning his right

To make them pay a poor man’s wage
To sit in places of esteemed learning
While he sits in Westminster
His face fat and sickly gurning.

He clothes himself in righteous fury
If any dare ask where was his heart last seen?
As he burns yet another Paraplegic child
In his tragic ATOS dream.

“You’re fit to work, you’re fit to work
Stop that gnashing of your teeth
You are nothing but lazy scroungers
And you’re all unclean”.

He sighs as though weary...

“God has sought to punish you
And I am but his instrument on Earth
And it is my fate, to rule over you
I am better by my birth.

His ghastly trade is one of hate
And driven by his rancour
The poor are punished by his mates
For being of lowly blood.

“The Poor are all envious” He cries
“And our riches, they do hate
They despise our goodly manners.
And our Godly state”

We are the law.
We are the rulers,
And they mere peasant spawn”.

And so they have no darkened nights
Spent in bitter angst; nor tearful regret
For they are the God seed
And we their stupid pets.

Oh how the mighty strut
All cock a hoop they go
When another piece of our England
They sell to carrion crow.

But The Adversary lives in terror
That ye might rise and sunder
His head from his neck
And him the Poor put under.

The echoes of Percy’s rhyme
Ring out across the land,
‘We are not their chattel
We are not their damned’.

Let the horsemen cometh
And let their cloaks be unshed
To reveal the comportment
Of their awful dread.

Of free men and women
Walking upright in the sun
Casting away their shackles
And the Tory world undone.

The golden upfields we was promised
And them we can attain
But first we must put to the sword
Those who’d have us all enchained.

Come now let ye all stand up
And side by side we stride,
Towards our golden futures
And them be cast aside.

We are men of oak
Tempered in our stormy hills
A multiracial kaleidoscope
Not owned by slavers bills.

Fight now then ye men
Against their evil incarnate
And our future is shining golden
Over yonder hills

Heaven waits...


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