No Turn for Revolution

Old Moor knew how serious things were when
Police didn’t burst into his apartment,
His subsequent non-arrest being followed
By there being no charges laid against him.
An expected show trial was a no show,
While a very public execution,
Complete with martial fifes and sombre drums,
Cohorts of yeomanry drawn up in ranks,
Top brass brassed off with having to turn out
On a brass monkeys’ morning early doors,
And a hand picked nose picking firing squad,
Each one hoping his rifle held the blank,
Was never publicly executed.
Instead there was only orchestrated
Indifference, a dark conspiracy
Of silence, so ubiquitous no one
Could ever quite remember so much as
A single word everyone new they’d all
Tasted on the tips of their tongues. And yet,
None could deny the persistent savour
Of salty words demanding to be spoken,
Invectives of such corrosive language
The very fabric of society
Might be bleached into such broad shades of grey
It would be a palimpsest upon which
A new contract could be written, put down
In such plain English the working class
Could be absolutely certain they’d signed
On their own behalf. That they also signed
Urgent warrants of arrest for bankers,
Stock mongers and general bourgeoisie,
Members of parliament of every stripe,
Not for expenses or other deceits,
Although the guilt is equally shared, but
Collaboration with the enemy
Being the real charge, whether it’s admitted
Or not. Claims to have been a partisan
Must be summarily dismissed as being
Fallacious for having accepted
A seat on the green benches. Ignorance
Of what selling your conscience to the state
For a constitutional stipend means
Is no defence. Worse, if “socialism”.
Or “labour” are only forged currency,
Spent all too easily at the bar of
Complicity upon precise measures
Of intoxicating reforms that seem
So wonderful while they are being swallowed,
But leave the working class with hangovers.
Such headaches and nausea, and much worse,
An alcoholic’s dependence upon
Regular shots of whatever narcotic
Will assuage persistent cravings without
Any thought being given to tomorrow.
Old Moor knows the conclusive temperance
Of his arguments and the clarity
Of his vision can be the only hope
For assuaging popular drunkenness,
Whereby everyone’s just having a laugh
Yet prepared to glass each other on the
Feeblest pretexts, rather than sobering up,
Realising that the world is definite
And neither wobbly nor uncertain, but
Is open to being changed for the better.
Despite such a clear headed assessment,
While the working class denies itself and
Is thoroughly distracted, Old Moor knows
The secret of the secret service is
To conceal themselves so completely they
Don’t arrest his caustic sobriety.

Dave Alton