The bell has been rung,

We are at the last.

Freedom lost, we are soon to be a symbol of the past,

Before there was a serpent in our halls.

We are the just servants sent to die,

For false promise of a lonely paradise.


The blood we spill is costly,

The blame placed on our heads.

They count our dead but never said,

All the lives we saved to them its nought,

For our worth is seen not in our duty,

Not our care nor how we spare you price.

For we are now servants,

The affluents false bargaining device.

 
 

When our chief is beaten in the streets,

The country calls for reprisal,

Yet their words fall deaf,

For when did they last realise?

That they have caused our own demise,

Putting faith in boneless men,

Nothing within that holds them up or back,

Butchers the lot,

Selling our organs while we’re alive,

And we hear no calls for we are now their servants,

And we’re told to mute our cries.

 
 

Lies so blatantly told to the beggars ear,

They say they stole his job,

That’s why he’s here,

Sitting shoesless on the street begging for a coin to eat,

And yet truth is in the numbers we’re not even half of force,

Yet you call for a divorce

 When you beg and plead to be alone,

You can’t moan or groan for this choice was your alone,

And if you fall and break a bone,

Don’t show such shock when receiving the bill,

For we are now service servants,

And we’ll charger you for every pill.

 
 

Our institution came to birth,

As slayers of such giants.

Our creation more real and epic,

Than David’s battle with Goliath,

For what united us was triumph and victory for all.

The reapers march was halted under the gaze of Bevan.

We bowed not to number ten nor even number eleven.

And still our death will come before we’ve seen a hundred years,

Even after all we’ve done, all our losses all our tears,

We are nothing to self-indulgent privileged of the nation,

Who deny their vexation for what we gave so freely,

The right for all to live life as long as the aristocracy,

Yet we are Prometheus, we doubt our tale will much differ.

A hero to the people, yet every day we suffer,

Our livers torn from bodies worn through gore and blood,

While stooges bring their payments up,

There comical incompetence brings no joy or humour,

When the very life of this country hangs on the very edge,

And still no one seems to care as we are traped in strife.

We were the servants of our nation,

Just meat for Boris’ butchers knife.

Thank you for reading my work. If you’d like to support me and my writing, I encourage you to subscribing to my blog – harveyjohneim.blogspot.com , or donatie to my pay pal https://paypal.me/HJohnWriter?locale.x=en_GB.


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