Through those grubby low echelons,
In which those who could never rise,
Bubble and boil in their mental cauldrons,
Splattering detritus thanks to their anger,
At secretly knowing they've not cut the mark,
So they spew and throw freedom of speech,
To the tennis courts of demented wolves,
Through those filthy corridors of power,
Wipe yourself clean young man,
Else your cloak will resemble their colours.
Rowan Blair Colver
In which those who could never rise,
Bubble and boil in their mental cauldrons,
Splattering detritus thanks to their anger,
At secretly knowing they've not cut the mark,
So they spew and throw freedom of speech,
To the tennis courts of demented wolves,
Through those filthy corridors of power,
Wipe yourself clean young man,
Else your cloak will resemble their colours.
Rowan Blair Colver
