Passion
In Melancholy state, selling cash for grime?
Looking for purity like an adventurous rhyme;
Scribbling verse that’s homed to a niche
Sounds to me, a bit of a pastiche?
Does the Major Curly Moustache really think?
He’s colossal arse nobody and ultra minor stink.
What, I heard a whisper, sound of dissatisfaction
One thousand voices later, all demand a reaction.
News of murkiness, the message unending
Leave me wondering, so who’s pretending?
Was the truth concealed from the marching tumult
But so smart and handsome, an undeniable result.
Marching, marching, forever in line
Perpetually proud – to the drums in time!
They had dreams of glory and such arrogance to foster,
With one voice aloud – they cried, cras es noster!
With banners and flags, slogans to render
Such pomp, such glitz, such ultimate spender;
Magnificence the rampant – trumpets and trombone
There a need to belong, be part of the cyclone.
Their buttons and brass shone brightly in the sun;
The radio proclaimed, that a new tomorrow has begun.
I shouted “Hurrah”! I waved my handkerchief,
Unwitting laying the cornerstones of grief.
When divorced from the human, can mankind survive?
Practices unethical and the strong should thrive.
Mankind’s neversphere, home of the hollow
So blind, too blind, that I should follow;
From an intelligence reservoir linefeed for a day
With brain removed, we’re guaranteed a say,
Petty utters and moans lead to this schism
Oh! But the glitter, such unity, such patriotism.
I marched behind the throng for one thousand miles
We sang, we chanted, I saw a million smiles;
No hesitation, no dithering – for we were strong!
But was the inspiring factor, just the need to belong?
And behind the glitz lingered a strange unpleasant smell
To the throng this programme – was such an easy sell.
Now to sober analysis the philosophies were floored;
When hate underpins – a manifesto by the sword.
The spirit was extreme and the delivery so strong,
Maladjusted foundations had deceived the throng.
I saw the glitter and the glory, lifted higher and higher
Yet still the foul scent – like twisted barbed wire.
I hear the voices of the dead on the telephone,
When peacekeepers run away, to which they’re prone.
I saw strong men accused and disappear this hour;
Tall buildings topple, in the sky storms of power.
In depth now question, who’s the really in charge
For influence and wealth to head cases at large,
Underlining drive, this was one of pure hate
So loose the war bird of freedom, before it’s too late!
