YIELD

Here is where we have landed,
Where our stand will be made,
Now the sirens have stilled
This island’s civility;
A distinctive form of English terrorism,
Filtered through old prayers and hymns.
We’ll request the projectionist to pause
In time for a refresher course;
To sweep us new born baby clean,
Of all but baby born debris,
And to our terry cotton staple
The freshest christened labels.

Now is when we take control,
When our new dawn will fall,
Before the batteries have done
With venerable England,
And denied its populace
A worthy occupation.
A clockwork object spliced back into action
With every frame a clearer one;
Swelling as its celluloid,
In colour bright and simple noise,
Explains to people safely home
About steeples and domes.