It's such a long land,
Langland Willie,
Everyman's enquirer
enabling allegory;
and thirty the throes
of threshing years
your poem pulls
its ploughshare there
across the fair field
full of folk,
between the toft's
tall tower
and the deep dale,
dark beneath.
A fair field, maybe
but folk less fair -
full of foxes
fooling the credulous,
swaggering and slyly
scamming the wide-eyed.
Churls of the church
churn out lies,
the outer orders,
objectionable characters,
the fraudulent fringes,
faith proclaiming,
all gorging gluttonous
in Gargantuan corruption.
Now today it's true
the tale's the same
the Commonweal's cracked-open
Corruption and his cronies
are cramming the cash
into their crass orifices.
Torrents tumble, to the
tune of twelve billions.
Conning consultants,
klepto-parasites
suck up the sugar,
stuff lumps down their trousers:
the state's out-sourced,
stolen in broad-daylight.
Piers Ploughman,
perjured by the press,
prevented from putting
his papers to the courts.
"Anti-Country! Anti-capitalist!
Antediluvian!"
any old stick will suffice
to smash an opponent
repeated robustly
redoubled in ferocity
until the tick's
on tip of tongues
jingles jerk
the jumpy knee,
and Bullshit Boris bags
a big majority,
proceeds apace
with plump impunity.
Crewed by cronies,
crab-boat of state,
heads for the headland
to be hurled on the rocks
(get real, it's no Deal -
all spiel was delusory),
while a mother of mites
moneyless, job-gone,
must wait six weeks
for DWP.
Can't cope with that;
kills herself,
leaving little ones
to languish in care;
costing considerably more,
that cruel penury,
in sorrow and suffering
certainly - and in dosh
than prompt pittance
pushed her way.
No rhyme nor reason for it,
but relentless evil....
......................
In the alliterative form of 'Piers Ploughman' a 14th century poem, attributed, it is mostly agreed, to William Langland.
