One day, and in the early spring
When dissent had spread an angry wing,
The crowd stopped and invited me,
To join their tragic comedy.
I met Hope, she bore a flag,
Words scrawled upon a cotton rag,
By Whitehall she marched in a pair,
With the gnarled form of old Despair.
I saw a canvas Trojan horse,
It cantered through the march’s course,
And ended in a blazing fire,
At the Oxford Circus funeral pyre.
I watched Cable, on TV
He wore a coat of treachery,
On strings he danced uneasily,
To a tune of Tory puppetry.
The front bench stood, and on they cheered,
Looked at the protest, laughed and jeered,
Standing tall, Tyranny looked on,
He looked a lot like Cameron.
We saw a riot in Oxford Street,
A ballroom Masque of Anarchy,
Chaos unleashed a raging blitz
On the windows of the Hotel Ritz.
Greed kneeled, afraid but unaware,
Behind a till in Santander,
Illusion shattered as it passed,
Set to the sound of breaking glass.
I saw Oppression standing there,
Waiting behind Trafalgar Square,
Batons and shields bedecked its flanks,
Fresh from guarding public banks.
We ran the gauntlet, lost the race,
They struck Innocence in the face,
Handcuffed him to ignominy,
In the shadow of Nelson’s Victory.
Fury burnt in Regent Street,
I heard the sound of pounding feet,
Of laboured breaths and worn-out shoes,
Of Lies upon the evening news.
I strode through London, door by door,
The city reeked of civil war,
The foremost ranks had broke and fled,
They feared darkening days ahead,
But even when those batons rain down on you,
Still we are many, they are few.