Sunday, 1 August 2010


Chilcot - a cold wind wraps Great Britain’s heart
Her archetypal refuge - cold as death.
He broke the last taboo for ego’s gain
In self-aggrandisement stole other’s breath.

And such is our disgrace, none barred his way
Save one whose easy Honour was upheld.
The rest in ignominy bowed his will
Outside: a million, impotent, repelled.

No darker hour this nation ever faced
Invaded by deceit and structured lie.
At unmet need all goodness from him fled;
Where moral vacuum lives, the righteous die.

In his defence he knew we must attack.
He said: “Doubt me, but don’t doubt my belief”.
And so we joined America in war
Once more, to Arab lands, we would bring grief.

Lord Chilcot has a way with stable doors:
One to be closed, indeed, seen to be so.
When he has done, no stone will be unturned
The truth ground wondrous small, and all on show.

But shall we be the wiser for that ‘turn’?
Such fine grained truth can be a lot like sand.
Time-jaded minds may reach - but poorly grasp
As all his fell misdeeds slip through our hands.

Then, as we watch him strut in Global state
In self-deluded opulence quite chuffed
We shall attend to his unending war
And know that – verily – we have been stuffed.

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