We towed the Mediterranean
Down to Dorset’s tail;
All it took was a fuselage,
A quadrillion barrels of oil.
Before it dawned too late
To Avannaata warm escapes;
Fibre optics newly routed
To what was once an icy place.
My dreams tell me I’m living,
Reality tells me I’m not;
I did not want an Alpine chalet,
I did not want a harbour yacht.
But our kings wear nefarious crowns,
Assassins sit at the table;
They promulgate poison as juice for a fête,
Then dress the deaths as fables.
They kidnap their own daughters,
(In a helicopter had them drugged);
Sent others worse off to mass slaughter,
Stonings at a polo club.
Our ambassadors are exposed,
It’s Monday, March, I am tired;
But I’ll take my time to somehow find
A different road.
A thousand years of subjugation
To overcome, your weapon’s poetic insight;
But it will start, if you have the heart,
When you gather your pens and write.