Portcullis Agenda

In a land not so far away

the fortress of tradition

built high on a hill

is Unassailable

 

A bastion, a thousand years

in the making

made firm in the minds

and concrete in the heart

 

Where the once pioneers

now circle the wagons

at that first hint of smoke

on the horizon

 

Where pound signs

are weaved into

the very metalwork

the portcullis of all Souls

 

Bound tight and concatenated

in the restraints of materialism

locked in the stocks

and pelted with cabbage

 

That great dominatrix

whips and dresses in a gimp suit

as the stiletto heels

grind sharp into the flesh

 

The standard of hypocrisy

flies against the winds of inclusion

should that inclusion mean, change

and put a halberd to the status quo

 

The reliquary of heroism

fades, merely a jar of ashes

where dreams go to die

for sake of precious personality

 

The cold chain mail suit of Egotism

deflects the arrows of Hermes

the messenger of the Gods

and temporary fame brings a permanent famine

 

The tin-pot eyes of I

stand upon the shoulders of the brave

to the battle cry of;

“What is in it for me?”

 

The world inspects its navel

and limits the circumference

the circumference of being

Not in my back yard!!

 

The spiral of evolution

implodes into the Ego

battening down the hatches

until the Pale Rider passes

 

The Drifter welcome once

has now served and must pass

so all can get on with the very magnificence

of their own existence

 

Kwai Chang must pick up his flute

and his cane if he is able.

The aeon of selflessness

has now faded under the harsh sun of

 

Deal or no deal?

The money lenders now Own the Temple

their mendacious bile of 

false happiness, poisons people  

 

And the Slaves all sing

the mournful spiritual

“What is in it for me?

What is in it for me?”

 

These pecuniary whores

of a modern Babylon

are but Harlots who sell their Souls

for glamour, a car and a flat scream TV

 

What is in it for me?

What is in it for me?

———————-

 

 ” And there’s another country, I’ve heard of long ago,

    Most dear to them that love her, most great to them that know;

    We may not count her armies, we may not see her King;

    Her fortress is a faithful heart, her pride is suffering;

    And soul by soul and silently her shining bounds increase,

    And her ways are ways of gentleness, and all her paths are peace.”