I was proud

 

Despite the maoist mist ,

The one step forward

The Twenty backwards,

despite the red thread ,

 not  political correctness,

but  power- lust,

 that ran through all their dealings,

When I heard  the story of the Congo,

 Union Minieres

And the Leopoldine butchery ,

the surplus value

of African people’s pain ,

Their severed hands

Solidified into the pillars

Of a bank in Ostende.

Their sufferings engraven on currency

That  feathered the nest

Of  the runt Sax-Coburg,

I was proud

That our group,

On his cushy visit to see the book of Kells

In Holy Ireland,

Threw slogans

at the King of Belgium

.

My regret is only that

The cobble stones of Trinity

Were spattered with student blood,

Not his.