Sri Lanka 2009 is Nottingham,
We’re peasants in hamlets
Being told by sheriffs and Sir Guys of Gisbon that
In the name of the king
We should play, dance and sing.
Soldiers come, set fire to the hay-roofs,
Cut dicks of our boys, pillage the women,
Hold assembly and make to us speeches,
We listen, cos in listening it seems
We won’t mind our pigs and corn thrown downstream.
Pink Floyd, 1986:
“Mothr do you think they’ll drop the bomb?
Mother do you think they’ll like this song?
Mother do you think they’ll try to break ma balls?
Ooh, ma, should I build a wall?”
Thoughtbubbles emanate from those in whose veins
Red blood flows, as a gun leveled against her head
Makes the rebellious spirit, at the moment dead,
Stir into a voice; against impunity:
“I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy”.
Speak, Lord Gisband, brandishing that
Your state-given sword and emphasize what you sputter
From word to word. The hooded man, like an Eminem,
Watches you strain that throat in fits. And if that is Robin
He little fails where he hits.