stand up and be counted.


cult epic poem good versus evil underground fantasy world

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Victorian is thought old hat,
Way past its pomp and prime,
Our throwback to a world of austere,
That world of toil and grime,
Yet they had mail five times each day,
As fact and not idle boast,
One could write one would be late for tea,
From a beach on the south coast,
And ones household would be forewarned,
If annoyed at ones irksome ways,
Now one gets home before the letter,
Because it takes up to three days,
Trains of course were frightful,
And ran on dirty smelly coal,
And steamed plus snarlingly snorted,
Whilst performing their passenger role,
But few indeed were ever canceled,
And fewer still were ever late,
It takes modern disorganization,
To confine us to that fate,
Automobiles were chic and noisy,
Their top speeds always drew gasps,
But thankfully the contemporary cameras,
Were not good enough for speed traps,
This was an age that knew not losing,
Where everything could be achieved,
Where anything was possible,
So long as we really believed,
Where police actually patrolled,
Where schools actually taught learning,
Where roads were actually navigable,
And everyone was always burning,
To be a part of Great Britain,
To have pride in where they belonged,
To read the countrys history,
And to sing the countrys songs,
Now our schools turn out illiterates,
We enter hospitals only if we dare,
Venture outdoors mainly in daylight,
And return late via very high fares,
Where nothing concrete is achieved,
Nothing difficult is undertaken
And statistics plus illusion are,
Rolled out to blind a nation,
Whatever happened to the Great,
Whatever happened to the Britain,
All we have now is the state,
And all the lies that are written.
The only time we are acknowledged,
Is when its again our voting year,
When all is vividly promised, now,
Yet was ignored for all those years,
Yet maybe the election wont happen,
And we might after all survive,
As ninety per cent are rigged postal votes,
And they might not ever arrive,
Or at very best arrive late,
Carried on trains still double parked,
Policed by mere paper statistics,
And all piled up high in the dark,
Running on rails that might crack,
Or on roads that can often crumble,
Here comes the mass voting truck,
Yes, I can just hear its rumble,
But the drivers now in A plus E,
And thence to wards plus bugs,
And no one is sitting in the cab,
And no one can hear its chugs,
Like a nation that could do anything,
But now quietly quivers in a corner,
Which could once move mountains,
But now just requires a mourner,
Who still has a good sound engine,
But poor bosses and engineers,
Where once there was pure power,
There now exists just abject fear,
Trepidation of the wrongly spoken word,
In case it should offend or annoy,
Fear of paying vast compensation
To anyone we might employ,
Fear of going out and doing something,
In case it should sadly turn out poor,
Just toe the line and pass the buck,
Whenever not absolutely sure,
Its time we really educated properly,
And reinstalled the Victorian drive,
When anything was possible,
And great ideas and thoughts were alive,
Promoted by those right at the top,
Not stifled from within by stealth,
Give us back our will to win,
Give us back this counties wealth,
Not the fantasy figures drawn,
Nor the illusion we are all fine,
Just the riches that, we matter,
And that this land is still mine,
That what we say makes some difference,
And what we do really gives us a role,
Like it was just yesterday,
Before officialdom took control,
Before long we will only know,
What they would have us hear,
And hope will lie down and die,
To be replaced by repressive fear,
So before we are disenfranchised,
And legislation chains our hands,
Before a suffocating grey blanket,
Is rolled out over our land,
Pause to think independently,
And see exactly what is really there,
And truly hear all the mounting lies,
And choose freedom over Blair.