Ignorance

They say that ignorance is bliss,
But it often leads to death;
If you don't know what's going on,
You may feel Dark Angel's breath.

Many things that do us harm,
Are in our daily world;
Covert danger's all around,
The innocent are culled.

Lucifer's Lies

What's that smell?
It smells like Hell.
Nothing cool will happen here
Till the Devil comes riding through.

It's time for Him to harvest the souls
Of his misbegotten fools;
Who affect to believe His Satanic lies
On the virtues of free enterprise.

They smirk and smile and prance around,
And tell us to worship cash;
We're supposed to forget too quickly
That the system totally crashed.

The system's psychopathic
Is what the psychologists say;
But the powerful are indifferent,
As long as they make it pay.

'Greed is good' is the watchword
Of Lucifer's acolytes;
But greed is really only greed,
They're a bunch of lying shites.

Joining Up

Be the best that you can be,
Fight to keep your country free,
When you're done they'll kick you out,
A useless drunk who swears and shouts.

Synchronicity Startles

I thought of someone I rarely see,
Then he was there in front of me!
Riding on his bicycle,
Across the Vicky Park.

Not much has changed for either,
In two years since last we met.
In much the same place, 
If my recall's correct.
What caused me then to recollect
An acquaintance that is slight?

He has a newish bike, 
Awesomely swift and light.
A minute's talk, then he speeds away.
Perhaps we'll meet another day;
By chance I suppose we might.

Four Holidays in One Summer!

I hear Dave Cameron is chillaxing,
On his fourth summer holiday.
While he's away, others are axing,
As he enjoys warm happy days.

Britain's finances are collapsing,
While the PM plays with zest.
His friends wax rich from rescued banking,
But swingeing cuts have done for the rest.

PS He has now returned to start a war. 

PPS ..and failed! Thank goodness. 

Warm Coffee Shop Air

Sitting in the coffee shop,
Listening to the chatter.
How this county's changed,
Meaningless dull yatter.
Toolkits, structure, focus:
A load of hocus-pocus.
She's trying to sell a training course,
Chunters on until she's hoarse,
To an audience of one,
Whose face says it's no fun.
People used to make things here,
All they make now is warm air.

Swans of the Grand Union Canal

Across the placid water they glide,
Necks long and elegant,
Poised to dip beneath a surface
That's smooth as their unruffled backs,
But dark and gleaming, holding secrets.

One looks me quietly in the eye and circles,
More in hope than expectation.
A few turns of its brown, webbed feet, 
Are all it deigns to make.
Its head ducks down, 
Comes up with weed
In reproach to my failure
To meet its unexpressèd need.
It chuckles water through its bill.
The canal remains both dark and still.