There’s a war coming but not like the last
The pigeons are painted like doves for a laugh
Everyone’s frightened but nobody cares
The zealots are moving, they’re marching in pairs

They’re marching for freedom, marching for fun
Marching their boots to the ruin of a drum
Marching to motivate, marching in rhyme
And the whole damned world is marching in time

There’s a war coming just over the hill
It’s almost upon us, but lies very still

Nostradamus made a subtle
Declaration, no rebuttal
Terror from the infant mewling
Danger from a different schooling
Watchmen rattled, with a yearning
From the book, denied the learning
Ages gone in tangled armour
Crosses on a rotten banner
Hail to thee, Mohammad’s calling
To the evil empire, falling
From its place of latent vigour
Points the gun then pulls the trigger

Dickens was dead: to begin with.
And social necessity rotted
in the neighbouring plot.

Poets’ corner was best ways
more crowded, yet no candle
burned, or heart held vigil.

it’s a pain in the chest
but ignorance cures all

eventually the mind
wanders, and dwells

on less significant
mortalities

like the gun she carries
for sentimental
reasons

minus one shoot
when she's stroking
me home