Well the Will of twenty twenty
Did not favour its kids gently.
Was the smirk in in that jerk's dying breath a gest left to make us unfriendly?
Or did it point at his suffocators, through pillows of plastic-made plenty?
Forget that loud death - there's quiet hordes
Bricked under this scene in front-room wards
Trapped, trialed, trickling up - put down by the order of the Always Of Lords
The mines that bind those poor prole's souls, extracting human oil like whale-ships boards.
Two and two's evils struck many by surprise
Some felt for necks, asked what's next, tried to open eyes
Saw cruelty crawl from Antique times, muffled in masks, found ways to rise
Saw profiteers who murdered years, bombs built below the pier in snake-sweat and lies
At the wake we'll say they died a crap uncle, and showed us good and sad.
The instant that first twenty waltzed in, it proclaimed itself to be mad.
Copyright © James Brown | Year Posted 2020
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