The gods are with those who fled,
Moments before a state-imposed deadline;
The hoodwinked donated bullets for bread,
Tidemarks are the breadline.
They sought work abroad, professionally wasted,
The journo’s a postman, the surgeon’s a baker.
Back home, they had the booksellers basted,
Agitprop is promoted, to be a peacemaker.
The crowds will be marching, banners and slogans,
The industrialists’ profit from a fixed water cannon;
The pacifists rallying were shot by the pro-guns,
While the Minister for Peace toured a factory in Annan.
No matter if Terror removes our scalps,
Or makes blankets from protestors’ hair, they said,
As long as you can buy flights to the Costas and Alps,
And hear the Shipping Forecast tucked up in bed.
The Ministries of Happiness and Dialysis merged,
The Secretary of State hated hearing of words,
(So many words, who knew so many would have to be purged),
These quacks who bemoan waiting times and wards
So overcrowded, they’re treating children in boiler rooms;
So he had the hospitals either closed or rebranded.
The Minister for Porn woke up late and resumes
Invasions of privacy, to keep in place the red-handed.
The king’s abdicated since his uncle groomed
Television presenters for well-cushioned thrones;
There are thousands in stadia stranded and doomed,
They make gallows from goalposts and wear headphones
To censor the sound of the women’s screams.
In Shetland, the tidemark is called a shoormal.
March womankind, march beyond dreams,
These man-made visions must not become normal.