by Nick Gisburne
A smoky, seedy, vicious little coup
Infects this weary nation with the scent
Of knowing there is nothing you can do
Your crooked leaders, all, are sold or spent
But when the fist of military might
Is introduced, abruptly, to your face
When colleagues, neighbours, vanish in the night
Pretend this is a future you embrace
The rains, the storms, may sanitise this land
And leave its people choking in the mud
But tyranny can never understand
A shadow, freedom, saturates the blood
And though they burn and pillage as they please
Dissent is always blowing on the breeze
