by Noel Mcgivern

Created on: June 07, 2009

Britain, Early June 2009

Fractured, the cup spins, tossing and spilling;

Dogmatizing, propagandizing and analyzing;

It offers no beverage of comfort.

Are we reflected in Orwell's unforeseen legacy?

Or in the dull notes of deluded songsters chasing a mirage?

They are not the fools.

Even the ink from the parchment bonds has been trice retraded.

We have seen the folly of grandees, and the grasping of orators.

We watch him in the ring, neither parrying the flailing fists, nor asking for the towel.

Now the spring is receding into rampant colour and only fraudsters claim to know the future.

Some call for a new song; others for a change of show.

Suffering is private, yet the spectacle is public.

The bondsmen smirk at the idea of a sacrifice that spares them.

For escaping the baying crowd is so much better than a good win.

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