Leader comment: A terrible poetry is born

while the raucous clamours lengthen

reaching towards the fateful morn

when those that can be bothered

will go to mark their cross

directing the nation’s destiny

either slicing through union’s knot

or keeping it firmly tethered.

That day of agony is yet to dawn

and yet there are no barricades to man,

no machine gun bullets to brave

or martyrs all must mourn

only the rattle of money;

choose this to be rich

or that to be poor

soothsayers on either side wail

while the people vainly seek some honey

they are told of barrels of oil

billions of them out there

meaning mounds of cash here

or maybe that’s just a foil

because those terrible banks

have consumed the people’s credit

leaving only unfillable wells of debt.

In this heaving herd of hawkers

There are no inspiring banners

only the fluttering of pound notes

which might be sterling or scotch

Hardly the stuff of romance

or sacrifice, which is why

a terrible poetry is born

(With heartfelt apologies to WB Yeats, proper poets, and poetry-lovers everywhere.)