Jilting the Jubilee
Three score
and ten, not a life, but a reign,
A feudal
crown perched on capital’s head.
Wealth looks
after wealth, while the folk are fed
A narcotic
diet to help sustain
Acceptance.
The spectacle being staged
Has been
Tudor rose tinted, red and white
And blue
blood of course. Manufactured delight,
With all the
pomp and flummery engaged,
Is designed
for subjects to celebrate
Their
subjection, not even think about
Their own
commonwealth, or begin to doubt
The divined
rights of capital’s state.
Let the
crown fall and Union Jack be furled,
Time to
break out bunting on a new world.
D. A.
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