Guantanamadu

In Guantam' did Rumsfeld Don

A stately torture camp decree:
Where raghead stragglers, lost to life,

Were forced in orange suits to fall 
Down upon their bended knee.

So twice five miles of barren ground

With guns and towers were girdled round:

And there were compounds rife with fetid cells,

Where blossomed many a keen agony;

And here were torments ancient as the hills,

Enfolded by sunny greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic spasm which warped

The minds of those who waged that struggle!

A savage space! as hellish and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By soldier marching as an order-lover!

And from this spasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if these imps in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty empire momently was forced:

Amid whose swift expanding burst

Great nations burned like exploding hells,

Of shock and awe beneath the bomber's flail:

And 'mid these dancing bombs once and ever

Was smashed up momently their ancient culture.

Five thousand miles with a crazy motion

Through desert valleys the accurs'd armies ran,

Then reached the citadels of ancient power,

And sank in arrogance to an inept rule:

And 'midst this chaos Rumsfeld heard from far

Domestic voices calling him a fool!

 Here's one of many online versions of the original:
http://www.poetry-online.org/coleridge_kubla_khan.htm 


Feel free to compare the two, bearing in mind they were written in a different century, and reflect a different mood.

A Guilty Pleasure

 Recently I've taken a job, driven by financial necessity. Together with minor illnesses, this has curbed my writing, until this week's sudden splurge. I had planned to commute to Whitwick by bus, a laborious process, till my new employer offered me a company car!

        How smoothly I swoop across a land

        Haunted by mist.

        Green and brown flow swiftly past,

        An eerie dream of freedom.

        A sonorous drone engulfs me,

        Bearing me forward.

        A more virtuous past,

        Wrapped in global concern,

        Slips away behind.

        Enraptured now by machinery,

        Thrust on me by circumstance;

        Or was it chance?

        How to refuse this delicious temptation,

        When I must get to work?

        Poverty the goad, effortless speed the allure,

        Rubber's soft whispers soothe.

        The road to Whitwick is paved with bad intentions.

Teeth

Who can speak of such evil times,

The truth's become a thought crime;

The people are forced by traitor's decree,

To grind their teeth in silence.

Life is strangely harsh today.

It must be stress, the dentists say,

It' s now an epidemic:

Our patient's teeth are wearing away!

One Leicester! is the bosses cry,

We're all in this together.

The quietly seething city knows

Of lies we've had an overdose.

EU expansion was the key,

To knock us down to poverty;

With joy we are supposed to crave

To be a minimum wage slave.

Our leaders tell us that our woes

Are due to Broken Britain;

They hope that we will never know

Just who it was that broke it.

Law says that we must force a smile,

While anger stimulates our bile:

Unable to express our rage,

We gnash our teeth in silence.

The way of freedom's land today,

If we speak our minds,

They'll make us pay:

So pass the day in silence.

To Wrest the Meaning from the News - and Give Us What's Left Behind

The newsmen drown us in the facts,

But meaning their rendition lacks;

They have a hidden agenda,

To treat it like a soap opera.

One dismal image trails another,

To tell us why is too much bother;

Our leaders speak an in-group code,

A thing which to our ill must bode.

The rich and powerful rule the roost,

War gives their profits quite a boost;

The media folk are in their sway,

They acquiesce in every way.

Who pays the piper calls the tune,

They drench us in a fact monsoon;

They say it is democracy,

But why not call it shite?

Ring Out Those Solstice Tills

At Samaritans, the crisis piles up,

Calls come thick and fast.

In the season of good will,

Wills needed more than usual.

In the centre of town,

The drink flows free,

Streaming curses and threats.

Children fight over toys;

Parents wearied by noise

Are at wits' end.

Why do the Christians

Covet this festival?

Surely it's better left to Auld Nick?

Seems more his bailiwick.

It wasn't always thus;

Once Yule was mild,

Rather than wild;

But all was changed to feed

The businessman's greed.