Anti-war poster, c. 1970
Take Your Eyes Off the Prize
“Busy giddy minds with foreign quarrels.”
—William Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part Two
When long-buried truths
Are brought into the light,
And even the most placid
Of journalists is up for a fight,
There’s nothing so useful,
So brilliantly wise,
As a distant explosion
To dazzle their eyes.
The headlines were humming
With names and with files,
With photographs frozen
And courtroom denials;
But watch how they scatter,
How quickly they run,
When missiles are launched
In the shade of the sun.
Epstein is brushed off
Every front page,
Replaced by a map
And a President’s rage.
An “urgent response”,
A “surgical strike”,
And no one asks who
Was on which private flight.
Augustus knew well
How a crowd may be steered:
Build marble from brick,
Keep the borders afeared.
If scandal draws breath
In the heat of the forum,
Send legions to settle
The matter with decorum.
Henry V followed
His father’s advice;
Compared to Welsh rebellion,
Foreign wars were nice.
A claim to a crown
Across cold French mud
Made patriot virtue
Out of rivers of blood.
And now, once again,
When the tame questions
Suddenly turn bold,
Is it time for a trick that is so old?
Start the drums beating
And the jets to rise;
Let justice burn
In white-phosphorus lies.
For war is a curtain,
A thick, smoky screen,
But history lingers
On what lies between.
Empires may posture,
And crowds may applaud,
Yet truth has a habit
Of outliving the sword.
So watch when the banners
Are waved at the skies:
Ask what was buried
When rockets did rise.
For nothing distracts
Like a well-timed surprise,
As you took your eyes off the prize.
The Dead Flag
Starmer and war crimes. Commons image
Starmer’s flag is the deepest red.
It’s a shroud for Gaza’s dead.
And our arms are true and bold
Look at the how innocent blood has flowed.
So rise the Arms Dealer’s standard high
Beneath its wings civilians die.
Though the BBC flinch and protesters sneer
We shall keep the Dead Flag flying here.
The Invisible Man Came to Clacton
Nigel Farage, wikimedia image
The Invisible Man came to Clacton,
Or at least, that’s what he said.
But since no one actually saw him,
He might as well be dead.
He wasn’t seen on the High Street,
Not once near Aldi or Boots,
No sign of him browsing Greggs,
Or shopping for knock-off suits.
Not a whisper in all of Clacton,
No shadow cast at Clacton Pier,
Unless you count that seagull fight,
But that happens every year.
One bloke claimed he heard him mutter,
“Something must be done about them boats!”
It turned out to be some bloke on the telly,
Out fishing for those far-right-wing votes.
He didn’t appear on CCTV,
Or register on doorbell cams.
Though someone keeps cashing his wages,
Direct deposit? Or Maybe scams?
So if you’re ever down in Clacton,
And the KFC door swings open wide,
It might just be the wind, or the Invisible Man,
Coming in for his chicken fried.
