Beyond the mask I saw the real you,
it would seem for a second in time,
your pretended halo had slipped away,
as the face beyond the mask revealed its head of clay.
The grizzled face of Empire,key holders of a repressive past
holding on by its fingertips to its blood rich past,
it was the pimp caressing the prostitute,
after taking her hard earned cash.
“But he is kind to his servants some do say,
then why did that servant steal from him that way?”
He was heard to say that “you can’t get good staff nowadays”,
after all he gave her that position in his new mission.
He said that making fires and stacking logs was god’s work,
the pimp lives and breathes and is ever present,
as he bathes in the soiled waters of so called respectability;
a master of disguise hiding a diseased soul behind pomp and pageant.
Where is the sceptred isle set in a silver sea now?
Hopefully it is in the heart of the common man,
where the true face of England lye’s buried,
under the ever increasing sludge of mediocrities trace!
George
Your poem about the UK is fantastically accurately observed and expressed.
see you in Chapel street.
mike