Albion - Book I

i.

Proud Albion has dress'd herself in rags
and Her sage freedoms through the dust She drags.
And She has brought disgrace upon Herself
akin to suicide's attempt on health.
All communication's intercepted,
the privacy of Kings, not respected.
So can one take but one suburban step
without the knowledge of a knowing rep?
Perhaps with this as how the subjects fare,
our Governments sure prejudice prepare?
Short sighted xenophobes seem rule The Land,
when once, an aid to exiles She did stand.
Her thoughts and attitudes - parochial;
successes' chances - might be minimal.
How has the People's will arrived so far,
they place their wishes on a faded star?
The largest Union and economy
is spurned as if there's no fraternity.
There's hypocrites pretend that nothing's wrong
as on the BBC they sing their song.
It is not news, this is propaganda,
and it creates the will, does not pander.
Reàl life so hidden from the common view,
for some, cocooned, there's naught hits home as true.
One does not come to curse what's come to pass,
and but lament converts from pure to crass.
Should we not count the freedoms in This Land,
despite the voyeur ever close at hand?
Should we regret a record of our deeds
so long as we don't bite the hand that feeds?
Should we accept as payment for past sin
the tatter that our privacy is in?
One's told we have a meritocracy
(not quite applying universally).
But when the norm seems abject servitude,
doth justify that few have interlude?
It seems we've lost the sight of penitence,
and for some folk, obsess on punishments.
And the result is hardly a surprise;
some petty acts, committed hid from eyes.
The more these acts offend Law's decency,
the less, correction's opportunity.
Perhaps, a list, for some, demerited,
those ne'er forgiven, ne'er accredited.
But then those few whose wealth would seem defence
against the most unrighteous of offence.
An idiot detects a pattern here,
sure, libel laws instruct that you stay clear.


ii.

A problem seems to be the double dip,
if you'll excuse a little bit of lip.
The cuts too deep - warned by the I.M.F. -
and stricken through, the bass, the treble clef.
'Till Cam'ron quit, falling investiture,
public, private, whilst no one made a stir.
The cheek, but to suggest to anyone,
that the above exists, that deed is done!
News-speak obsesses every adult mind -
they'd think you mad, or deaf, or mute and blind.
Objective proof - the score that's on the door -
regard our Moody credit rating score.
And when we speak of av'rage household debt
they're fifty thousand pounds enmeshed in net.
If credit cards at twenty four percent
each needs twelve grand before they think of rent.
One wonders how such people live their lives
how fraught the angst betwixt the men and wives?
And this the av'rage, what of those above,
whose finances might soon preclude all love.
There's those who live from hand to mouth - quite hard -
but what of living hand to credit card?
This state of play seems set to grow with us
not least as if they've more, they make no fuss.
Albeit on The Capital one frowns
upon a lesser scale in other towns.
Our once proud institutions seem a front -
a tourist trap if one could be so blunt.
Will rent increase and council housing fall
until no worker can afford at all?
Has it become a playground for the rich
where even beggars can't locate a ditch?
A London visit - must it so implore
nor sight nor sound of any that are poor?
Between Tube stops and off the beaten track
their still remain a few who'll take no flack.
And all remains in living memory
not so far back to claim obscurity.
Things seems have changed, but so says every age,
but is it fundamental, there's the gauge?
Nations, some follow in this pixel war;
it does not make us their superior.
One can continue, just as nothing's changed,
and what results, they think that you're deranged.
It's true that no one seems to care at all,
but did we ever care before the fall?
One thing for sure, we can't turn back the clock,
nor can predict what future holds in stock.


iii.

The claim: this is a self inflicted act,
as urban myth is intertwined with fact.
The media, it played a leading part,
each day a knife attack upon the cart.
The chicken and the egg - resolution?
This State, a result of evolution?
Only so many ways to stem the tide,
evasion is response to each that's tried.
If you compare antibiotic drugs,
their over use results in superbugs.
But unlike those, was there at first a need?
Was fear'd anticipation matched by deed?
Suburbia has changed, one might cry foul,
a time that rich and poor lived cheek by jowl.
Does ev'ry postal code require a code,
a uniform, accent, motor, abode?
What happened to our rich variety?
Are Londoners a lost identity?
The spice of life according to one bard,
display it once in pubs and you are barred.
Are we an army? Must we march in line?
For times not long gone by doth any pine?
A word found used was xenophobia,
a fear of strangers, an hysteria.
And this what we desire, what we demand,
the price we pay, the ruin of The Land.
We would the sun stand still Bank Holidays
and age ne'er meet our sure declining days.
We would each to possess eternal youth,
and not one soul should speak a word uncouth.
That each enjoy perpetual happiness,
despite to know this, one must know distress.
The attitude drives any to despair:
the sheer boredom, but Englishman could bear.
Upstairs, downstairs - it has returned today -
just manifests itself another way.
And what so quick, reduced us from our prime:
the spur that drove, not crime, but fear of crime.
The jealousies of all that they possess
into a public int'rest so they dress.
If one of them should lose a mobile phone
their absolutes of certainty are blown.
They must be sure that no one steals a thing,
or in their castles can they still be king?
To introduce one ambiguity
demands response to an totality.
The problem here is zero tolerance,
but not for others, just in their ring fence.


iv.

Our government - claimed libertarian;
the individual right - it's that should win.
The stateswo'man should play a lesser rôle,
as market forces rule from pole to pole.
In such a stated ideology
the citizen expects an liberty.
Such policies, perhaps, they won our vote,
but have some changed the color of their coat?
And now, can any hold them to account,
whilst they hold pow'r, totality's amount?
The nanny State - an anachronism -
'twixt word and deed is there not some schism?
It was suggested someone should record
ev'ry phone call, as if we were their ward.
And then, as if this bind were not enough,
each email - nothing counted off the cuff.
They promised strike the legislation down
and some admired such more permissive gown.
But come the time their actions tested word,
their promises came last, or came in third.
So now in England, must one watch one's step,
and who's in who's po'cket, can one sidestep?
Because they test you oft along the way,
inflammable con'tent which leads astray.
One's reassured with certain formula;
if nothing's wrong, no accessing data.
Ears in your phone, and eyes are in your mail;
what one of us can claim to never fail?
So what if once you missed the basket's hoop?
And to recover it, how far would stoop?
One cannot understand the ins and outs,
nor if there operate some info' louts.
What is for sure, if you're free specimen,
assume you're innocent, for they've the gen.
And should their prepared microscopic slide
be set awry, boy, don't await free ride.
As fear of other's crime has set the tone,
now, observed, it is a fear, of one's own.
How many English, pure in act and deed?
Is it expected we are saints indeed?
Or does it scare the vast majority
to shady acts of anonymity?
One cannot understand the sums and math,
not of have nots, but haves, and what their path.
The wealth they generate seems mystical
an actual from hypothetical.
Perhaps a crime, but not against the law,
one's confusion is one's outstanding flaw.


v.

It may be urban myth, but one is told
about the English sheep observed in fold.
Our England's Close Circuit TeleVision
exceeds in magnitude, any Nation.
Were each of us to smile, caught on TV,
with ev'ry step as happy as could be.
However, one should note this subtle ploy
doth still not bring about suburban joy.
Perhaps a hitch, the camera needs mann'd,
and swift enforcement by and by should stand.
Though to observe some act, the wheels might grease,
the cuts to services include police.
With this, are civil wrongs prioritised
upon the social worth that's criticized?
The State's Intelligence aware of all,
it but decides who rises, who should fall?
One asks oneself, is this conspiracy?
No scientist would test this fallacy.
But to suggest assaults the rule of State
and but to print invites an evil fate.
So, England cannot be, they'd say it thrice,
no sense is here, dismiss it in a trice.
And all the slaves of academia
would starve of funds advancing formula.
Creating thus a public paranoid,
a privacy in public whole devoid?
Step out the door, they know it as a fact,
they take upon themselves a see through act.
They cannot take the Tube without a prop:
what funds this magnitude some day must stop.
It matters not, if getting cash in hand,
these actors act together in a band.
And at the other pole they search in vain
for some reality, held in distrain.
As if State's apparatus not enough
some carry smart phones, try to double bluff.
The motive seems of crime and punishment,
which held so strong, a National detriment?
A petty crime, met with petty vengeance?
What happened to our Christian ambiance?
Why does it rea'ssure victims of crime,
to know that those committing it serve time?
And are they sent to penitent'aries
or training grounds which lead to felonies?
The social causes, they remain in place.
Who, what, could this sub'urbia reface?
To solve this bind remains a mystery.
That it's not solved, first actuality.


vi.

If any tries to raise a Stately dome,
the adage that applies - one starts at home.
If ev'ry street, and call, and mail, is stage,
where is the place of honest and the sage?
Observed, the Nation's character, pretence,
doth there remain a place for common sense?
Pretence by definition is a lie,
though shalt not what, a God did once decry?
And if one man the truth to tell should deign
it is assumed by some he feigns to feign.
Each citizen an actor in a play,
which bores to tears who've known the light of day.
Do English citizens each stranger spy
with nothing, ever, but suspicious eye?
Is it assumed that just as with their own,
a semblance, all realities disown?
The prejudice that stands before them all
that Albion should stand, all else should fall.
The trivial subjected to critique
if any English manner it should pique.
And as suggested, they themselves subject
to such a follied, foolish, introspect.
Should any dream so far to break the peace,
they are their own, and other's, thought police.
Present this portrait to a hoard of them,
they wouldn't recognize a stitch of hem.
Say and show you've caught them in a selfie
each one would but ignore and sip their tea.
Ask them to think awhile, take one step back,
and their composure'd never lose its track.
Show this as true reflection in a pool,
last man of them would count you as a fool.
Not one of them would think to say 'ahem'
as none could dream their ethos to condemn.
We've walked in line four hundred years or more
and may go on regardless what's in store.
Marx had a term for such - false consciousness -
and we through this arrive at prejudice.
Not cursing Enland's nationality,
this is not our peculiarity.
Perhaps a character, a trait, we share;
true to developed Nations, such affair.
To bear in mind that through a global switch
compared to times gone by, we all are rich.
Remember too, despite the lotto's airs
we cannot all and each be millionaires.
The World has changed, and England must so too,
we need embrace so both the old and new.


vii.

How many would, but not confess to it,
to see a Black and then walk opposite?
How could this fear of strangers more expand?
Until we dread each non-caucasian Land?
Doth Albion distrust the slightest tone
that differs but a bit from its home grown?
So Blacks and Asians, do not sole take fright,
too in this Land a man can be too white.
And those whose class cannot be pigeonholed
consigned to steerage, placed within the hold.
The English seem obsess with fitting in,
so others too, though none make such a din.
The while, the media plays language games,
the like of which, to plain confusion aims.
Behest, consult your English dict'on'ry,
asylum here defined as sanctu'ry.
In print, airwaves, TV, a jolly band,
we're told none seek "asylum" in our Land.
The last man jack described a "migrant" soul;
perhaps the word, realities control.
As if one member of the public crowd
might think to open doors and speak aloud.
A vote, a voice, concern, it might be swayed,
and were there two, the pow'r élite dismayed.
This claims itself no class in history
which were best left to university.
We but restrict ourselves to gen'ral trends
as these and they alone best fit our ends.
This Albion was famed for centuries,
receiving exiles from the overseas.
Part of this definition - criminal -
but to our pride, we boast political.
With brains, imaginations, fully stocked,
Europe's intelligentsia, they flocked.
With England's sage permissiveness held dear,
political asylum granted here.
Though now it seems we've 1984,
with thought police, a'knocking on your door.
Although explained, that this - conspiracy;
we cannot guarantee its fallacy.
But what is more important, if it's so,
is this a sound, and sage, manifesto?
So thus should other Nations imitate,
of this, a formulaic rule of State?
In observation, seems we rule the seas;
is this a chain that binds, or chain that frees?
Should other Nations follow in our path,
they'd best find first what's reàl and do the math.


viii.

How many paper's headlines us bombard
with alternates of 'not in my backyard'.
One tabloid, with one page, might we exchange,
as England cries 'our life must never change'.
Regardless of the import of the plan,
they will appear, and oh, with such élan.
Propose to touch a compost heap, a shed,
and little Britain rears its ugly head.
With pamphlets printed, posted, phone calls made,
and media so rushing to its aid.
Naught galvanizes our communities
to such fren'zied, vo'cal, activities.
Is it called to mobilize opinion?
Before all an Englishman's dominion.
And here the middle classes specialize,
and will paid chick feed others' formul'ize.
A baby in their cot, they make their noise,
so ignorant of idiotic poise.
It's said of childcare, all are well informed,
but each perhaps a parent, each was formed.
Some types, they have a take on everything,
and if you won't agree, you're in the ring.
So few that know the phrase 'I'm ignorant',
so few the multi-coloured cormorant.
Nostalgia creeps, and how, with pois'n'd dart,
infecting even some of youthful heart.
But is it sentimental, there's the rub?
What of past years and now, is this the nub?
So if it is the case the stream's run dry,
well, mourn upon the water that's gone by?
What if, beside declining treasuries,
our old don't have rose tinted memories?
To yearn for stasis were to ask too much;
what should one do if aging years do touch?
This constant wish of turning back the clock,
can it of present, future, take its stock.
For Albion, the problem, it may be,
a greater past was our reality.
Not even looking back two hundred years,
or to those times when England had no peers.
Perhaps the case that we have met decline,
despite what you may read, things mayn't be fine.
And all within a generation's span,
or maybe two or three, it's hit the fan.
The NHS was once a pride and joy,
what's left would seem a strategy or ploy.
The old have spoken in our plebiscite,
the ones that have paid in, they have the right.


ix.

Our media has much to answer for:
to misinform don't break the rule of law.
It is no crime to be dissemblers,
the single quote, how little it avers.
Perhaps our journalists don't realize
their magnitude of sin, its awful size.
And what is more, pub'lic amnesia,
dissolving to bla'tent hysteria.
So ask of most, what happen'd yesterday?
With some a blank leaves one with blank dismay.
Like Frankenstein, a monster they've produced,
whose acts, even by them, can't be deduced.
And then we come unto the BBC,
an organ of the State, transparently.
This Corporation don't report the news,
it sets agendas, we sit in our pews.
It doesn't even bow to government,
and to the pow'r élite it doth assent.
And each and all invite them in our homes
and think we know the score, we act coxcombs.
And then in conversations, near and far,
repeat their dross to prove that we're on par.
But more of this upon a later date,
one's ire with such can never quite be sate.
And thus we cannot speak of people's will,
but of o'pinion, manufactured ill.
How many shots of topless, grinning, girls,
before one man, his fantasy unfurls?
They've created it, can't take it over,
there's bigots in this Land - no pushover.
And what is more, seems cannot be reformed,
there's attitudes that by the coals are warmed.
So should one tabloid try to change its track,
it would not sell - there is no turning back.
One does not criticize reality,
this is this Land, and we are it, you see.
And so, Great Britain's had a plebiscite,
it is defined, the choice, it must be right.
The city gent, he bet the other way,
we lost a bit in stocks, what the dismay?
The abject poor and destitute are heard,
the Cabinet supporting, just one third.
And now we see exciting times indeed,
the government, the populace must heed.
Apologies, as this sounds frivolous,
in verse one mirrors the ridiculous.
And since Great Britain ceased to rule the seas,
this may prove, one of England's worst crises.


x.

So now and where are our World's superpow'rs?
You wouldn't need to search for hours and hours.
Until one Nation left it used to be
a certain fedéral community.
Not far from home, should one leave you to guess?
No longer so, now slightly in a mess.
America, it was inferior.
Thought you U.S. knew no superior?
A global player, and a global brand,
and to this Union once belonged our Land.
The Federation calls itself EU,
and once upon a time, we in it too.
One finds it strange, a land which loves the club,
blackballs itself, and gives itself the snub.
Perhaps the problem's root, it lies as such,
it's other's rules this Land don't like so much.
The fedéral in federation's rule,
it means we take their law; the law's a mule.
By this one means it's got a kick on it,
we may do things not liked by ev'ry Brit.
So if a statute rises from afar,
double the reason England should it bar.
Economy's decline, and legal binds,
doth this the this and that so link in minds?
To cleave the Union and United strands,
seems represent of opposite commands.
United Europe, then of the UK,
here Britain's will just may have lost its way.
'I'm off to Europe', say vacationers;
EU or none, they've started there, each errs.
Discussing ours, the Union must not fall,
apply to Europe, boy you'll meet some gall.
We fly by air: to'day's isolation;
must it match some cost'al map of Nation?
There's powér in a Union, some have said:
we may lie on it, now we've made our bed.
Perhaps one delves too deep - psychology -
of our crowd instinct - not reality.
The fact remains that this has come to pass,
why group the one's guessed view into the mass?
Democracy is representative,
our people's will, nor any soul misgive.
In normal times, it's Parl'ament decides,
and now a plebiscite, it overrides.
Bringing one unto a staid dilemma
which can't be solved by any formula.
However rules, or sways, the statesmanship,
always majority's dictatorship.


xi.

So this analysis, it could be wrong,
and only time will tell, it won't be long.
This verse, it has advanced an argument,
and each is free from this so to dissent.
At least presented is hypothesis,
which could expand, so becoming thesis.
Again at least this is a point of view,
just like each citizen so has one too.
And so just like our recent plebiscite,
each one is counted, each one has a right.
So if we claim that we've democracy,
the rule belongs to our majority.
The Corporation, how it fails in this,
one means the BBC, one means amiss.
Each day they interview some citizens,
with fifty million wills reduced to tens.
Joe Public, edited, and chosen well,
appears the story of the news to tell.
If man or woman that is interviewed
should veer from norm, on TV it's not viewed.
And in our Christian Land, it strikes as odd,
no public soul believes or acts on God.
And so in a Land of stark division,
what unity, aired on television.
By this device reality is bent,
avoiding all, ex'cept bland'est comment.
Tune to the BBC both night and day,
and hope for fact, you're better off to pray.
And our recovering economy,
it don't exist, as plain as plain can be.
Mark well, that since the crash of two oh eight,
U.S. recovered, not our failing State.
And though it's claimed, increasing affluence,
one smells a rat, although one may be dense.
Between the lines, the writing's on the walls,
spectating, one can just afford the stalls.
And all of this, of course, it is no crime,
each 'journalist' the greasy pole doth climb.
A profession of dissimulation,
as they, en masse, so confuse the Nation.
So too examples of false consciousness?
To one it matters not, the more or less.
We'd count collective actions as a sin,
ignoring earthly comforts that they win.
One asks oneself if it is venial,
but unforgiven, not congenial.
Perhaps in afterlife, a place for them,
regardless, death must so their drivel stem.


xii.

The BBC creates the attitudes,
and with TV their are no interludes.
The propaganda is a constant stream,
there is not time to think, there is no seam.
So is each word rehearsed on auto cues,
the while behind the scenes they talk and shmooze?
So hour on hour they stare you in the eye,
a group of hypnotists, to give the lie.
And each so thinks that this, what's going on,
awhile, the news of yesterday is gone.
The city gent may read the ticker tape,
the rest drawn in, into the dreams of State.
Each night, ten forty, on the BBC,
tomorrow's papers you can view and see.
Includes broadsheets, tabloids, a pick of each,
tomorrow's news discussed, within your reach.
Newsprint's old black and white, it fades to grey,
as each today, the news of yesterday.
One thinks it better named 'current affairs',
describes for whom the pow'r élite, it cares.
With whom we dance the tango or the waltz;
one thinks this representative is false.
The verbal attentat on those we spurn,
the lover's tiff, each Nation takes its turn.
And then we speak of angles or of takes,
the BBC, it never makes mistakes.
By saying nothing, time and time again,
no need retract, if things should change, and when.
At last it seems we've reached the graph's nadir,
they have created it, and now must hear.
One does not criticize the people's will,
the words of Albion must call the drill.
The Corporation could not summarize
that we proud Brits are in for some surprise.
Perhaps not saying nothing time on time,
there is a message - we are in our prime.
It seems that those atop the greasy pole
so have their fortunes both intact and whole.
And so the message of the pow'r élite
remains intact, despite all isn't neat.
Lost ten percent of twenty million pounds?
Try losing ten percent when hunger hounds.
One claims we live with monumental change.
Is such a thesis really weird and strange?
One claims for some, their wealth remains untouched.
Displays that one reality's not clutched?
One claims it's not reported on TV.
Is this a sign of one's stupidity?