We trusted you, my friend, you asked us to.
Do you recall, way back when we were young –
well, younger than we are now, decades on?
You’ve changed. Don’t seem to do, the right thing to do.
Did you have hidden dark thoughts then? They seem to belong
to someone we don’t recognise? The light has gone.
Instead, there’s darkness. It started once you lied.
We came to you. At least one million strong.
All those you jilted. In our trust. We tried.
Yet, you demoralised this country long
before you went to war. We watched you go.
Arm in arm with Yanky Lover and God
on your side. So Messianic! You sold out
to your Satanic Mammon. So very odd.
We thought you so religious and so
moral. You held the high ground. Perhaps the air,
there, being so refined, turned your mind about.
Climbers, they say, when too high, get delusions.
Well, that was true of you. Altitude affects the brain.
Not that the pain, death and destruction you caused
is easily excused simply by that;
power corrupts those already corrupt.
Such knowledge need not lead us to despair.
It’s good that one no longer has illusions.
You lost your moral compass and for your sins
took territory where you did not belong.
Others came back with flags draped over coffins.
You never quite came back. You never - paused.
And there it seems, my friend, you still remain.
The dead aren’t heard. They sing a silent song;
it says exactly where, and who, you’re at:
the horseman of your own Apocalypse.
The evil you created none can stop,
and still you spit your pestilence; truth speaks abrupt,
yet only parsimonious lies pass through your lips.
You changed religions. Did you confess your lot?
Forgiven? For penance: “Envoy, Go Make Peace”.
But even so you wheeled a deal with those
whom, it is said, helped bring twin-towers down.
Not that I go much on conspiracy,
I just repeat what I have heard proposed;
you made a pretty penny from their oil.
Such are the spoils of war. But why now fleece
those you were sent to save? Yes. Even now.
You make peace deals set to divide and rule.
Seems everything you touch you seem to spoil.
If nothing else, you have consistency.
First, you screwed us. Made us look like fools.
And then you went off, flirting, played around.
You’re like a political tart! Just, how
do you manage to get to sleep at night?
Grandee delusions? Out of touch. And reach?
Rich! Powerful! The Main Man! The One! Despite
that: we, The Many, are ready to impeach.
We’ve learnt that we can do the right thing too.
Trust us in that - as we, once, trusted you!
© john william brown 20-21 August 2015