https://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=127856

 

There’s a flower, that’s for Remembrance;

Poppy of Hope in the rat-race gutter,

Some ego trip by town hall plastic patriots,

Aimed to set our hearts a-flutter,

Whilst sentimental platitudes they parrot;

It might as well be on the Brighton Line,

As into oblivion it’s daily smeared and ground,

By the rushing double-deckered number nine,

Of dignity? there is no semblance, not a jot around,

Its companions? vomited kebabs and red red wine;

But, no matter that; on with the show, out with the bling,

Tarraaaara boom dee aay in the Parish Church the top brass blare,

Whilst the poor into the collection pot spare coinage fling,

See! the Big Wigs are out on the town hall square,

Formalities droned and orisons are muttered,

The Tories at prayer, singing the King’s praise,

Processions processed, then candles spluttered.

 

Remembrance there, is a flattened dead cat of a thing,

Overlooked by the plinth where some marbled celebrity’s raised.

Who are those town hall bar-room bores,

Those fools with their names to this damnable disgrace?

Their grief’s as shallow as the pool of piss

That swills around the King’s Arms piss-stone floor.