The political poet

The political poet's on stage

And he howls with rage and blood-drenched metaphors

Human rights, knife crime, poverty, Israel

The bloke really knows his stuff

And he talks tough, tonight

And loud

With the righteousness of a prophet

As he skewers yet another prevailing paradigm of received opinion

So who is to blame, political poet?

Tell us, tell us now, we all know you know it

We'll gather our pitchforks and lynch 'em

The political poet laughs, acidly.

Oh that's easy, he says.

America's to blame

Or corporate greed

Middle classes, daily mail

Bourgeoisie

Consumerism, probably.

You know one of those will do.

As he finishes his sermon there's not a dry eye in sight

He's definitely getting laid tonight

And after soaking up applause, walks once more among the mortals

From the back a small voice shouts "So what should we do?"

The political poet sighs inwardly

And offers no advice

Collective action is for herds,

And he's all about the words

Later the political poet is at the bar with a beer

And as closing time draws near

He takes a happy, heroic swig

Who needs real analysis when your dick's this big?

His righteous fury gets girls every time

Those sweat-shop kids can wait in line

Tonight the poet is up on his luck

Will he go to the demos?

Will he fuck!

He's too cool for action

But sometimes he'll dream

Of the halcyon worlds

That might have been.