The great bells ring hollow this day,
the revelations flow and fall,
bloody ink smeared across the bloody pages.
How much was grifted from the eager public?
How much was grafted on to twisted stems.
Westminster weeps, as it has not on any other day,
since the leader of the few,
those happy few,
passed through London streets for the last time
The great words ring hollow today,
what promises made now
drip to the floor,
and ooze into dark forgotten corners.
This is the outrage to the last.
Cold spray in the face of forgotten heros,
that bent bow at Agincourt,
or drove towards the hill at Hastings,
took one last shot at Naseby,
or spread wings above the blitz in Britan's battle.
What did these men did die for?
It profits a man not the whole world
for his nation's soul,
but for a flat in Wales?