God Save The King

I’m sorry for your loss,
but I’m sorry for the loss of a nation’s voice,
and frankly, I don’t know you, so my right to chat shit just means a little more than you do.
Pain is a panicky, prick of a thing.
Perhaps you’re acting out of character,
or perhaps this was who you’ve always been…
Who’s to say?
Not us, obviously,
because our lips are locked up, just for looking like they might make a little trouble.

Everyone likes a bit of trouble, Charlie.
Don’t be such a spoil sport, when we’re all going through such a difficult time.
I appreciate the bank holiday,
and that you’ve decided to grace us with your company,
but you can’t arrest me for admitting that you’re not the centre of my world.

You can always respond by calling me a cunt, if you want. I won’t have you arrested for it, I promise.

A workshy, boisterous blond once said that he couldn’t keep us safe from the plague, because the people of these islands love their freedom,
but it seems that our freedom is only fought for when it allows the state to shrug their shoulders and leave us to die.
If I were to raise my voice above the volume of a mouse’s squeak,
and speak my mind about how much I actually mind being “ruled”, then my alleged freedom comes second to the feelings of a rich but regretful man.

You don’t have to agree, but you can walk on by without letting the rage hit your eyes. You don’t have to make that call, and show us all how little you understand the people you rule over.

God save the King from the reality of his Kingdom.
Keep his eyes closed as he traipses down town centre pavements that house those without homes,
hold his hands over his ears so that he doesn’t have to hear his public as they grieve,
some sobbing for his Mother,
but some, grieving their shot at life,
staring with dread at the weeks to come,
as poverty stalks from the shadows, with dark, cold eyes, and an appetite for everything he sees.

Everyone needs to let off a little steam, Charlie.
We’ve been boiled and beaten down for a decade,
and you’re dressed in your blood diamonds,
getting precious about a bit of dissent among all your fawning and adoring.
Chill out a bit, Charlie.
Nobody likes a crybaby.

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