Your Country Needs You
your country needs you.
Victorian is thought old hat, Way past its pomp and prime, A
throwback to a world of austere, A world of toil and grime, Yet
they had mail five times a day, As fact and not idle boast, You
could write you would be late for tea, From a beach on the south
coast, And your household would be forewarned, If annoyed at
your irksome ways, Now you get home before the letter, Because
it takes up to three days, Trains of course were frightful, And
ran on dirty smelly coal, And steamed and snarled and snorted,
Whilst performing their passenger role, But few indeed were ever
cancelled, And fewer still were ever late, It takes modern
disorganisation, To confine us to that fate, Automobiles were
chic and noisy, And top speeds always drew gasps, But thankfully
the contemporary cameras, Werent good enough for speed traps,
This was an age that knew not losing, Where everything could be
achieved, Where anything was possible, As long as you really
believed, Where police actually patrolled, Where schools
actually taught learning, Where roads were actually navigable,
And everyone was always burning, To be a part of Great Britain,
To have pride in where they belonged, To read the countrys
history, And to sing the countrys songs, Now our schools turn
out illiterates, You enter hospitals only if you dare, Venture
outdoors mainly in daylight, And return late via very high
fares, Where nothing concrete is achieved, Nothing difficult is
undertaken And statistics and illusion are, Rolled out to blind
a nation, Whatever happened to the Great, Whatever happened to
the Britain, All we have now is the state, And all the lies that
are written. The only time we are acknowledged, Is when its
again a voting year, When all is vividly promised, now, Yet was
ignored for all those years, Yet maybe the election wont happen,
And we might after all survive, As ninety per cent are rigged
postal votes, And they might not ever arrive, Or at very best
arrive late, Carried on trains still double parked, Policed by
mere paper statistics, And all piled up high in the dark,
Running on rails that might crack, Or on roads that can often
crumble, Here comes the mass voting truck, Yes, I can just hear
its rumble, But the drivers now in A and E, And thence to wards
and bugs, And no one is sitting in the cab, And no one can hear
its chugs, Like a nation that could do anything, But now quietly
quivers in a corner, Which could once move mountains, But now
just needs a mourner, Who still has a good sound engine, But
poor bosses and engineers, Where once there was pure power,
There now exists just abject fear, Fear of the wrongly spoken
word, In case it should offend or annoy, Fear of paying vast
compensation To anyone you might employ, Fear of going out and
doing something, In case it should sadly turn out poor, Just toe
the line and pass the buck, Whenever not absolutely sure, Its
time we really educated properly, And reinstalled the Victorian
drive, When anything was possible, And great ideas and thoughts
were alive, Promoted by those right at the top, Not stifled from
within by stealth, Give us back our will to win, Give us back
this countys wealth, Not the fantasy figures drawn, Nor the
illusion we are all fine, Just the riches that, we matter, And
that this land is yours and mine, That what we say makes a
difference, And what we do really gives us a role, Like it was
just yesterday, Before officialdom took control, Before long we
will only know, What they would have us hear, And hope will lie
down to die, To be replaced by repressive fear, So before we are
disenfranchised, And legislation chains our hands, Before a
suffocating grey blanket, Is rolled out over our land, Pause to
think independently, And see exactly what is really there, And
truly hear all the mounting lies, And choose freedom over Blair.