They sit in their cold, careful castles,
The men to whom life was so kind
Believing that clean reputations
Are kept by the deaf and blind.
The grubby, pathetic and scrubby
Are whitewashed with such careful paint,
And when someone says that it’s happening,
They reply, right on cue, “No, it ain’t.”
In love with their great institutions,
In love with their bright golden thrones,
They polish their canopies’ framework,
Gold varnish placed on dead men’s bones,
They practise their eloquent phrases,
So musical to their own ears,
And wash their hands clean from the problem
In a bowl of the victims’ salt tears.
Themselves are the true persecuted,
So runs their mellifluous song;
“What a shame that these people are bitter,
What a pity that they are so wrong!”
How hollow their words are to history,
Where self-defence brays like an ass,
And the more that they measure each sentence,
The more they sound heartless and crass!
The angels come down from the heavens
To stand with the broken of earth,
They lift them with infinite mercy
And give their cause measureless worth.
But those who have trampled the hurt ones
To build their own temple of pride,
Are those who blaspheme what is holy,
God’s love for each terrorised child.
