FOOTNOTES

FOOTNOTES.

Britain has lost its soul. No-one knows quite what it is –

it’s a little bit of this and a little bit of that,, and mostly a little bit of nothing.

It’s out there somewhere, scattered among the ruins

of stolen dreams and lost aspirations, ensnared by the authority block;

The cold cynicism decades in the making;

From the vantage point of this washed up shore

you can see the entanglement of complexity, the hair splitting of the pedantic,

a sack of Pandora’s boxes with its media bag as standard bearer.

Britain has lost its voice. No-one knows quite what it’s saying –

it’s forbidden to say a little bit of this and banned from saying a little bit of that,

and mostly defined by what it's not allowed to do.

The wings of a butterfly broken under a wheel, The hair splitting of the intolerant,

A self-righteous sanctimonious killing field;

Where the pseudo intellectualism of the big ego,

Double-thinks into mass-graves.

The words are written sometimes like this and sometimes like that;

they are clever and without instruction, vague without substance,

and mostly supposition and hearsay, chattering for attention and little else;

little kids with toys.

It’s out there somewhere, lost on the soft rocks of hedonism

and the razor silk cynicism; plundered by its own prejudice,

starved by its own miscellany, a changeling culture

constantly falling into bits, buried under an avalanche

of falling flags, with little bits of immorality and parts of virtue

they mix, bond and clash;

Hidebound and narcissistic, therefore never understanding;

The soul of Britain a multiple personality which cries for order,

a huge complex from which you can’t escape.

The tribes are rising.

Britain has lost its comprehension, It has no understanding of anything.

It takes popcorn like water. Watches without thinking,

Moves on what it thinks it knows, and ignores what it does know.

The truth is complex, but simple solutions are sought

by a population of languorous voguish parrots.

The few have flown the nest, leaving a fake landscape which helps no heroes.

Modern Britain is a piss-pourri of dried up dreams,

lost in a line of coke, burnt in a puff of smoke.

Tomorrows aspiration is a cheap thrill and soap to wash away any spots of excellence.

Intelligence is a morons hobby, Discipline the creed of cranks.

An orgy of decadence and suicides of deprivation.

Britain has lost its spirit, Its footprints are far behind,

Its ghost haunts the occasional accidental

stumble that drunks make as they scurry away like rats fleeing the terror of importance.

First past the post leaves the majority cast out, but the dogs think they're powerless because the owners are wise, cracking leads for deception they keep the jaws back.

Yesterdays fight back was a labour representative committee, typewriters clicking away organisation the order of the day and intelligence the only weapon deployed.

Today's rebellion is a 'Fxxk the Tories' on the cenotaph

for dead heroes who fought something far worse.

The ragged trousers are throwing books at the lady in the lake;

in a drunken frenzied wake.

Britain is no longer coveted, it is hated by it's very self. A land of intolerance

asking for acceptance. It crawls along in the gutter of despair, walks away from every challenge,

expecting its future on a plate.

It leaves a little footprint for people to ignore, its great history now a footnote on a little island somewhere. Its modern sectarian presence brings chaos and ghetto's, and the bankers fiddle while London burns down. But the ghost of empire still remains strong, haunting the future like an endless swansong, this realm of majesty is now a land of fantasy.

Drunk on the media it turns on itself;

fighting for scraps thrown at them by dogs.