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We strive to what you ask of us,
Through rings and hoops
Of fire and blood.
Yet not for glory or fame
Do the embattled generation work,
But for the paradise promised to us,
That once-great Albion,
An Eden amongst hellfire,
Would be ours.

What part would you have us play,
Performed over ashes and lies?
Would you prefer to make us the cowards,
Masquerading as kings behind words?
Or perhaps the snakes who defile them,
Hiding greed behind righteous slurs?

Oh, if the writer e’er made any difference,
I have yet to see them bear fruit,
Yet no-one, not me, can cover this distance,
Or imagine anything good
For the change that is asked of us
By the poor and the desolate.

The ones we ignore, walking by
As our minds are caught by the scent of
A new goal; a different target set
By the angels who clamour on high,
Consulted by devils who crawl in the stands
Behind their two-penny, half-burnt Guy.

The Fawkesean sacrifice made by some,
An example to set before all,
Serves only to show the outer skin
To expose the bone,
The innermost workings of God.
Must legions upon legions fall?

Talk is all well, naturally.
Anonymous man with pen or screen
Can spread words of love and hate
All the more easily.
Though my pen could well be weaponised
To spark attempted revolution
Like the children fifty years gone in a flash,
I feel hypocrisy biting my ankles,
The teeth of the beast whom we keep.

For cheerful chaos, as wished for
By those who are against the spell,
Is far worse than the unhappy order
Which the state casts over
The people of Albion.

This we acknowledge, but never,
Never try to hide.
The fact that this world,
Your so-called paradise,
Has no glory, no honour,
No Eden.