The shops are all empty, with tight battened doors,
While gutter-bred urchins, scratch cold running sores.
Loud roaring taverns do courage-build trade,
As the pox-ridden whores act out their dark charade.
The men from the Unions, mount tables and shout,
That the blame is not theirs, they were "bloody sold out",
But the mob does not listen; they know who's to blame,
Now they want violence, and bloodshed, and flame.
In the country, the farmer, still ploughs a straight row,
Though he knows in his heart, now, that nothing will grow.
For the land is now toxic, and the livestock all dead,
As are his family, at home in his bed.
Politicians are gathered, in comfort and style,
To debate all these problems, and hide for a while.
There are some who envision, the upcoming storm,
While the rest are quite happy, to talk in the warm.
The soldiers, in barracks, prepare for the fray,
Praying fervently, they won't, be called on today.
But they will follow orders, and kill if they must,
Though to slaughter their own, fills their hearts with disgust.
In a church, stands a shepherd, surveying his flock,
Not a sound do they utter, they are all bowed in shock.
In his heart he feels nothing, but sadness and sorrow,
For the carnage he fears, will take place on the morrow.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
