On England bitter, wild winds blow and grow
The blossom’s thrashed, knocked off the living stem
As if for a new catastrophe we’re due.
This week, this world, imagine what we know
As Terror and Election come again
On England frail with fighting what to do?
The little nesting birds sway in their tree
Summer is suspended, voters groan
As if for fresh catastrophe we’re due.
The common people quarrel violently
An abscess bursts and then hot poison rains
On England now the wild wind snarls anew.
The cold contempt divides us into two
The only good is that we can’t buy guns
When for a new catastrophe we’re due.
Saturday, the News struck Britain dumb
The blood and guts of sacrificial victims ran
The death of God calls forth barbaric brews
Can we change, embrace a better view?