Re: Post modern Britain.
I count cash,
Cold hard figures,
Waiting for my soul to be delivered,
I sit amidst the screams of yuppy fiends,
Who preach the blue eyed dreams,
I look to the east for solidarity and peace,
But mother India does not heed my screams,
I cradle her bossom,
But its too late,
Birthed by western conception,
For will the young heed the lessons,
I circle cultural catacylysms,
I walk blindfolded through racial prisms,
For cannot mankind see beneath the veil or sheath?
Underneath our coloured masks,
For do we not all bleed?
Hate is a mistress,
We must divorce in this twisted game of multicultural discourse,
My palm perspire amidst the Anglican fire,
Politicians paint perverse landscapes,
That distort faith and lineage,
There crooked rhetoric or rape and pillage,
For I seek peace,
Not the romantic return to indigenous villages,
Post modern Britain.
A crooked cultural paradox,