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Darlings are you ready for the long winter's fall? Said the lady in her parlor said the butler in the hall. Is there time for another? Cried the drunkard in his sleep. Not likely said the little child. What's done the Lord can keep. And the vicar stands a-praying. And the television dies as the white dot flickers and is gone and no-one stops to cry. The big jet rumbles over runway miles that scar the patchwork green where slick tycoons and rich buffoons have opened up the seam of golden nights and champagne flights ad-man overkill and in the haze consumer crazed we take the sugar pill. Jagged fires mark the picket lines the politicians weep and mealy-mouthed through corridors of power on tip-toe creep. Come and see bureaucracy make its final heave and let the new disorder through while senses take their leave. Families screaming line the streets and put the windows through in corner shops where keepers kept the country's life-blood blue. Take their pick and try the trick with loaves and fishes shared and the vicar shouts as the lights go out, and no-one really cares. Dark Ages shaking the dead Closed pages better not read Cold rages burn in your head. Please fill in the fields below and click SUBMIT to send it to your friend.
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