Albion - Book II

i.
 
So where and how, to find reality?
For certain not discover'd on TV.
Some travel in the taxi, or the cab,
assumed with wealth, if they can match the tab.
The more adventurous, the tube, the bus,
but in between the stops, assumed a fuss.
The Capital, to walk the streets at night,
requires an attitude, one's fears to smite.
This needs dress code, to be male in gender,
before all else, lack'ing slightest splendor.  
Then one discovers, cont'ry to what's told,
there's few the wolf within our city's fold.
So few the ones that could relinquish fear,
and too their proud belongings not hold dear.
The crux, that if one choose to aggravate,
an escalating spiral's on your plate.
The future's young, they're quick, some carry knives,
needs nouse, respect, show this, perhaps one thrives.
And so maybe, the paper, it holds true,
dripping with wealth and cash, your chances, few.
One would advise, best not try this at home,
outside your comfort zone, best not to roam.
May take a Master's in suburbia;
without, resultant tachycardia.
And so the other half you never see,
perhaps nine tenths in its totality.
It seems the well to do are isolate,
in ignorance, they could not adumbrate.
The working man is clever hid from view,
search high and low, one might not find a clue.
And then the people claiming from the dole,
in certain postcodes you'd not find a soul.
Where are these people, how do they exist?
Their abject niche, and how do they persist?
This, brought about by social engineers?
Must Englishmen so only mix with peers?
And such divisions in society
maintain class ridden actuality.
The poor, so forc'd, they prey upon the poor,
the rich have no one knocking on their door.
The areas devoid of crime and ill
ignore that some must take the bitter pill.
The inequality that rules our Land,
it would now seem our mark, to be our brand.
It seems too late to mend this damaged State,
as none can act on it, and all berate.
So many now in abject servitude,
to stem the tide, it would create a feud.
 
 
ii.
 
One has set out as dire, the prognosis,
and yet, does this match one's diagnosis?
Were English workers to be put to work,
it's sure as sure can be, they would not shirk.
If each were paid an honest, living, wage,
would Albion recover place on stage?
We could remain with our partitioned class,
if we refrain from forming underclass.
Might it be, the devil's in the detail,
although admitting such, there's some might pale.
What were we to invest, in this, our Land,
and not spurn poor, the Welfare State disband?
Theresa May has said that she will spend,
ignore the deficit, so change our trend.
And thus we're brought in line with other Lands,
at last exhibiting convergent strands.
Such policy, for year on year was spurned,
no UK party its support had earned.
This stands opposed to libertarian;
when crisis rears, relax sectarian?
So with this spending, could we see some growth?
Let's hope and pray we haven't been too sloth.
The crux, so might it be this come too late,
now that our credit score has hit the slate?
So could Great Britain soon be Great again?
The future it's beyond of any's ken.
As with before the placing of a bet,
one wants to know the odds that one would get.
To bet that we are standing at crossroads,
would state two ways not one, the odds it loads.
Find which bookmaker where the bet could place
the horse would finish anywhere in race.
But this thesis, not quite akin to this;
the argument is one of hit or miss.
We seem have opted for uncertainty,
and in uncertain times, out from the lee.
But putting our economy aside,
our civil strictures one might still deride.
The voyeur in our streets, nay everywhere;
where can one go authority don't stare?
No one escaping from CCTV,
its reach amounting to totality.
One wonders at the cost, and who doth pay,
to make so sure that not one steps astray.
And now it's there, Joe Public, he expects;
each reduced from subjects into objects.
Perhaps we Brits possess stiff upper lip,
do nothing wrong, it's someone else's trip.
 
 
iii.
 
The death of freedoms we must not lament,
but doing wrong, we should be penitent.
Observation would seem our State's forte;
each citizen possessing their in-tray?
Innocent, 'till proven guilty, once said,
but now, how many, they should live in dread.
The Internet, how great is this machine,
and what details on each of us could glean.
So if the criminal needs privacy,
it is not granted unto he or she.
Each mail, each call, but adding to distress,
so is recorded ev'ry web address.
And so they know each time keywords are searched,
who on the brink of anything is perched.
Or so one guesses from the rule of law,
presumably, that is what this is for.
However, it is they that must decide,
what is permitted, what is slightly wide.
Perhaps they think of nature and degree:
needs be that more than one of them agree?
So many strands of content we forbid
and none of these from common view are hid.
Our statutes, they might seem to know disuse,
so few are straight, we could not tighten noose.
Or does the Internet so have a plan,
and does it have a purpose set by man?
Is this the World's supremest honey trap,
and should we each and all so mind the Gap?
And such conspiracy, please don't discount,
with User's hist'ry held to their account.
Such theor'y is not too fantastic,
introduce into your mind elastic.
Each site you've ever so been visiting,
and each the search term, enter'd as a string.
You may have thought that mails and calls might tell:
what secrets in this mass of data dwell?
So far, it seems, exhibiting excess,
the law, it counts its chances of success.
And so perhaps if known, for this or that,
from under you, they try to pull the mat.
But rumored of, is a sheer magnitude,
which goes unpunish'd still, and boy, how lewd.
The Internet, it spies on us at large,
as we, our scopes of int'rest so enlarge.
One comprehends this most supreme of tools
as meeting point of forward minds and fools.
Depending if we search for muck or brass,
we so create or navigate impasse.
 
 
iv.
 
And so, at last, it is to texts we turn,
each one recorded too, or so we learn.
One asks if anything could come to pass
that isn't crystal clear, or clear as glass.
But ambiguity, it so remains,
and total certainty, it has its strains.
One's understanding lacks a clarity,
and asks itself, where is reality?
If this the information they acquire,
what can be hid from them, when all's a wire?
Each call, each mail, each text, each web address,
before the State it seems we must undress.
The stated case, if you do nothing wrong,
the Land is free, although their hand is strong.
And one who doesn't break, or bend, the rule,
they may ignore the status quo, stay cool.
But do we have an even-handedness:
the more, the more, and then, the less, the less?
It may depend on how you schooled in life,
and inequalities, they may be rife.
Went to a comprehensive school? Bad luck.
Decades later, just try the trend to buck.
And race and wealth, so do they play a part?
The goal posts move, and fairness may depart?
Although each missive's sense, despite what's claimed,
its con'text, subcon'text, cannot be framed.
Alert, so one responds to the missed call,
and did one ever know these folk at all?
There are occasions that SIM cards are hacked,
one knows this so, as close can be to fact.
And numbers disappear or reappear:
should one converse, ignore, it isn't clear?
This may not be comm'on experience,
but not untrue; one may include the hence.
There's phones, and then there are computers too,
apologies, conspiracy it grew.
If one were specimen upon a slide
that's fair enough by one with nought to hide.
But if so falls beyond the intercept
this may be more than citizens accept.
But, probably, this stays in rule of Law,
with few exposed, so few brought to the fore.
One knows too well, to clamor or complain,
produces acts, the more so in that vein.
And so one speaks of generalities,
in what's above, you'll find few certainties.
The call, the text, the mail you never sent,
to try recapturing, not time well spent.
 
 
v.
 
To thus delineate the pow'rs of State,
it certainly appears Great Britain's Great.
The manu'l that's consulted more and more
would seem George Orwell's 1984.
Although the fact that goes against the flow
is that the citizen has chosen so.
The other différ'ence brought to the fore,
seems that one rule for rich, one rule for poor.
And so Big Brother watches ev'ry move,
or so conspiracy asks you disprove.
And have we asked for such, made our request?
Our pray'rs were answer'd, were they ever blessed?
For each - statute of limitations - none:
a crime in youth, in age you can be done.
Research above three words on Internet,
and then conspiracy you may have met.
And too, of course, an ignorance of Law,
doth not exempt - each man Solicitor?
Perhaps unfair, perhaps correspon'dence
between the rule of Law and common sense.
Are we thus children that have misbehaved
and sterner rules from parents we have craved?
One thinks it not, there is division here,
between the us and them, so seems it clear.
And so between the haves and the have nots
perhaps the casting of alt'rnate lots.
And some may sometimes look the other way,
perhaps the public int'rest may hold sway.
And then with what takes place on private land,
perhaps it so beyond the Law doth stand.
Sometimes one hears reports, whispers in the press,
but of the outcome, one is left to guess.
The pow'r élite, they play the hypocrite,
it seems there's some that get away with it.
And whose behav'or doth withstand critique?
The apogees, each with their dirty clique.
The rest of us - a cog in the machine,
each public place, so actors in a scene.
One seems need play a rôle, or fit a part,
one needs to know one's lines, and off by heart.
And should one dare pretend to privacy,
the alternate surmise - telepathy.
If one don't fit, the more one's life's been strange,
the more one shares, the more they one estrange.
Square pegs, round holes, to make it plain,
in this the Land, whose class so is its bane.
It isn't who you know, it's what they know.
One is confused, but it seems to be so.
 
 
vi.
 
So, do we have a meritocracy?
One's told we do, and so we ask, you see.
What merit is rewarded in this Land,
and how apply to join the merry band?
Whatever one is told, one does suspect,
it is a club, or certain sort of sect.
To join one has to sever ev'ry tie
with ev'ry soul to whom this don't apply.
One may be wrong, although it seems the case,
need tune the treble, tenor, and the bass.
As has been pointed out, they march in line,
one marches out of step, that is not fine.
All well and good, one don't create a tiff,
but what perchance, were they to meet a cliff?
Left right, left right, left right, it's their affair;
one wants to know if they could walk on air.
Supported by their universities,
and possessed of rigid hierarchies.
What were their stocks and shares to hit the fan?
And introduced to want, as common man?
Perhaps far fetched, for them a fairy tale,
but not to insignificance doth pale.
It could so come to pass, perchance.
Were they to pay their tax, what were their stance?
It's clear it ain't a meritocracy,
'tis pow'r élite, as plain as plain can be.  
They feed off the have nots, and how they feed.
They feed? It is phlebotomy, they bleed!
They drink, they dance, they lech, within their club,
should any do so too, they get the rub.
One does not mind, to what they choose to do,
perchance a place in Hell, where there's a crew.
Whilst Albion remains a Christian Land,
naught wrong to claim the Devil has a band.
And in the face of this, how they would laugh?
What were they dead, and be judged by Ser'aph?
And so one uses language - "fie on you",
and what one says, it may, it mayn't be true.
Although, at least one has an argument,
and using poetry, one still may vent.
So you enjoy your 'hard earned' wealth, you all,
while some, unto eternal life may call.
You come into this world without a stitch,
shrouds have no pockets, maybe that's the glitch.
It seems there is no faith, if given proof;
but lacking faith, there's some deserve reproof.
Perhaps you rule the Nation, coast to coast.
Of Pater? Filius? Of Holy Ghost?
 
 
vii.
 
To date, America, it has its dream,
from rags to riches, comes to pass, a theme.
But in our Land soc'al mobility
don't quite appear to be our cup of tea.
What happens to the boilermaker's son,
now that this trade unto its end has run?
I doubt he'll find a place as an MP,
perhaps should try the service industry?
Perchance within a boilermaker's town
there ain't no jobs, and boy, his luck is down.
We used to manufacture, to produce,
what now the shipyards fallen to disuse?
First to admit, above, a platitude,
but repetition serves, no need allude.
Need dress the facts up in a pretty dress,
and with poetic license you impress?
These people have no jobs, no certainties,
each day they face grim actualities.
No help if one or two climb greasy pole,
and sever all to reach their selfish goal.
There's millions in this state of absolute,
the well to do, they do not care a hoot.
A charity that's turning over cash?
Themselves upon the board, they'd be that brash.
This ain't a Land of meritocracy,
it is a Land of inequality.
There are a few who have, and then have nots,
exploited, silenced, tied away in knots.
The rich, they set the tone, and set the choice;
knowing or not, the poor denied a voice.
Alike class war, societal breakup,
just seems the case one side has given up.
Mustn't grumble! Keep calm and carry on!
On empty stomachs, memories bygone.
The poor maintaining stiff the upper lip,
one thinks how long before they get a grip.
Our 'representative democracy'
it represents, ain't true, and that's the key.
The candidate so panders to the crowd,
but if they win, they need not do as vowed.
If won, a five year's tenure them doth greet,
and then, of course, they'll serve the pow'r élite.
Perhaps one's wrong, but one's allowed one's views,
so having viewed 'the circus' through the news.
Should one say 'spectacle', Westminster's form,
degree to which it so departs from norm.
Were there a hint or peep of demos here,
they'd close it down, so having got the fear.
 
 
viii.
 
A word that springs to mind is penitence,
which to a Christ'an worth, it should make sense.  
Best said, to start the rolling of the ball,
we each and ev'ry one are sinners all.
And to accept our failings, the first step,
lest estimating worth we overstep.
To demonstrate contrition, show some shame,
some self-reproach, to give another name.
Remorse, regret, and so repentance too,
to have compunction, so the cud to chew.
Perhaps we but do this in Sunday's church,
and then on weekdays spare ourselves the birch?
Some rich, the pillars of community,
they have not sinned, no sin, no guilt, you see.
The camel and the needle spring to mind,
although but one God-fearing one to find.
It seems to be, although one will not judge,
the more they have, the more that they begrudge.
One limits self to one's own theory,
that when each dies, soul's perpetuity.
Eternal punishment, or so reward,
their wealth above them, Damocles's sword.
But then of course it's someone else decides,
and not for self to be the rich's guides.
Two million strong, The House of Atreus,
one terms the Nation's unemployed, no less.
A task of Sisyphus, to make ends meet,
imprisoned if they take it to the street.
Like Tantalus each one, both starved and parched,
whilst to the drum of plenty, others marched.
And were this multitude so damn'd from birth,
and what the grounds they have a place on earth?
One doth suspect the social engineer,
and too the groups, arranged around this seer.
Maintaining those on zero hour contracts,
needs threat of worse realities, worse facts.
Where stems this Nation's proud morality,
which struts in front of inequality?
What prompts the television's spread of wealth
before a mass in monet'ry ill health?
And what resultant urge, what the desire,
each household turned consumeristic fire?
So if you can't afford the price up front,
they'll charge you twice on credit, what a stunt!
The sale of milk, the sale of bread, declined,
as lottery's inauguration signed.
The odds are stacked, the populace is skint,
the company in charge, they make a mint.
 
 
ix.
 
And so behind the tourist trap's facades
one may discover gritty esplanades.
The kind of place one wouldn't walk alone,
a diff'rent mode of life, a diff'rent zone.
The kind of place where concrete is the rule,
and sodium the lamps with orange pool.
The kind of place where any cry for aid
will only meet a worse and worsened shade.
They try depicting such on your TV,
one has to go, to know reality.
To name the place, suburbia, one word;
they've never been, their knowledge is referred.
Again one blames the social engineer,
they have the place on lockdown, it is clear.
As long as they remain within their tract,
do they so here permit the petty act?
The street that is two hundred metres hence,
a gated compound, hid behind a fence?
The other way, they know one is observed;
by wealth and Law that populace well served?
Just like speed cameras set up on roads,
some know their whereabouts, some know their nodes.
All said, is this some complicated play,
so that the poor upon the poor do prey?
A meagre income from the soc'al fund,
by whom befriended, and by whom are shunned?
You born and bred? Do you have family?
And can you cope with life's uncertainty?
Have any place to go in times of woe,
or anywhere to turn when mood is low?
Will someone come a'knocking on your door?
And should you answer? What's the visit for?
So are you safe just walking to the shops?
Does going out transform itself to ops?
It's sink or swim, do you control your fate?
What are your chances on a sink estate?
One wouldn't pry too much, if one were you,
there's something lurking here, hidd'en from view.
Pandora's box, with all God's gifts, once ope,  
each gift was flown, had nothing left but hope.
You see, there's treasure in a block of flats,
depending whose the choice of habitats.
The Barbican - suburbia - des res,
each pays the price tag, each who lives there says.
The English phrase that where there's muck there's brass
could be applied so to the underclass.
Not bricks and mortar, reinforced concrete,
the poor's home ownership, it may prove sweet.
 
 
x.
 
We must be blunt, at times the Law is broke.
Sometimes this justified by serfdom's yoke?
Not sure if due consideration's took,
but can be sure, if caught, they'll throw the book.
One's heard some dispossessed, disabled too,
and then they steal as hunger has its due.
They find themselves incarcerated then,
and in the company of fearful men.
So cripples to reduce to servitude,
and then imprisoned, just for wanting food.
And thus to punish, brings forth penitence?
Released, they still have stomachs. Where's the sense?
A key would seem the non-recidivist,
who only needs one slap upon the wrist.
But he or she requires a safety net,
as well as for the second time a threat.
A chance to get to back upon one's feet,
a place to live, a solid meal to eat.
A chance to work; a chance to live a life;
a life not marked by need and want and strife.
A helping hand; a chance of moving on;
and not to let that ev'ry hope be gone.
Perhaps there are some charities do thus,
but for majority, few seem make fuss.
Regarding evil and of money, loot,
it is the love of money that's the root.
One has a slightly diff'rent take on this,
whose subtle diff'rence isn't hard to miss.
The times when money has the upper hand,
are when supply is less than the demand.
One cannot tailor one or other stream?
Not long 'till finances will make you scream.
And so, back to the non-recidivist,
if he or she still starves... you get the gist.
So if we have a soc'al cause of crime
the penitent may still go thieve a dime.
If God had meant poor starve in plenty's Land,
so need they also die, gi'ven command?
A Christ'an Land, where Christ'an souls so dwell,
for this, our Christianity, death knell?
Some rich's straight and narrow's wide and lush,
they know abundance well, the wine doth gush.
A land of stark divisions, church or not,
one thinks for whom the Devil casts his lot.
And servitude, it manufactures sin,
oppression blocking any way to win.
How much to dispossess an honest man
before he goes to join the other clan?
 
 
xi.
 
It but remains one of one's the'ories,
perhaps to add to one's conspiracies.
You'll be aware of this, our Land's rich list,
what of its opposite... you get the gist.
Perhaps they've died a death, but let's be clear,
the Nation's blacklists, what i speak of here.
Of course i'm sure they do not break the Law,
and one may vet, and track from shore to shore.
Referring to trades union activists,
such scrutiny, one's sure that it exists.
Does such amorphous, vague, intelligence,
some individu'ls out of work ring fence?
We do not know, and there's the nub of it,
would those who operate ev'er admit?
Your email linked to soc'al media,
op'ning a vast encyclopaedia.
So did you mention once that you got drunk?
If so are your employment prospects sunk?
A Tweet that weren't politic'lly correct?
If analysed, how would they this dissect?
A friend on Facebook from a foreign Land?
Step out of line, what would they understand?
And all of this, is plain pub'lic domain,
What else is known... if following one's vein?
So has each citizen a dossier,
if so, sure fire, that each at least one slur.
None is per'fect, however much they try.
So if they can't be perfect, are they sly?
Our system seems a well maintained machine,
but who can keep their noses ever clean?
It seems that some are in, and some are out,
and those who's in, boy do they have some clout.
It might be so they keep their penchants hid,
and none in pow'r would think to lift the lid.
One guesses so from those that one has known,
for one, the chance to be so, it has flown.
And in this Land where one is merited,
what were so many too demerited?
So who decides if you are in the club,
or if establishment gives you the snub?
It does not bother one, so comes to pass,
and all distills itself to marks of class.
Their bland displays of honor don't impress,
if in the club, a thief from them they'd bless.
So to prefer a garret, writing verse,
than fellow man for poverty to curse.
So rather not all fealty transformed,
nor traitor to the mode of life that formed.
 
 
xii.
 
So moving on to our 'establishment',
the pow'r élite who seldom take a dent.
It seems they do exactly as they wish,
and life for them is served upon a dish.
It seems their appetite for life is 'full',
to pay for it, they have a pocketful.
One does not mean to cast aspersions here,
but what they choose consume, it seems quite dear.
Of course the each, the witness, to such deed,
would ne'er confirm, and so would ne'er concede.
Perchance it don't occur - conspiracy -
but one has heard of actuality.
The pow'r élite, possessed of a penchant,
one asks oneself if it's a need or want.
Is anyone surprised, or much aghast,
perhaps to understand, one is the last.
But such misdeeds, do they go hand in hand,
with something else that is more underhand?
Or are there strains of them who diff'rent lapse?
One does not know - conspiracy perhaps?
One does not wish to pry, it's their affair,
but if offence, who should the facts lay bare?
It so appears there are recidivists,
the plot it thickens, and so has its twists.
In public copy one can but allude,
but all will know from newsprint, things get lewd.
Another English blight attached to fame,
one cannot mention deed, or even name.
Our libel Laws, they seem our detriment,
and but a prop to our establishment.
There's even libel tourists, use our Land,
knowing at home, their case, it would not stand.
And thus if you're av'rage, unknown to most,
can they at will defame you in a post?
You just detect the pattern that is shown,
and of the wrongs depicted shade the tone.
So wealth or fame, it seems to be defence,
a household name, so innocence, what sense?
Your chances when examined by the Law
seem rest upon a 'good' solicitor.
And so with everything that's codified,
there's ambiguities, can't be denied.
And is the tiny loophole found at last,
whereby opinion of the Judge recast?
It matters not, in the grand scheme of things,
a jury cannot grant one Angel's wings.
Prepared however well, we will meet Death,
and we, not God, will take our final breath.
 
© Copyright 2016
Mr Robinson.