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THE DEAL WHEN DEMOCRACY DIES
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STANLEY WILKIN
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Rick
Elevated to the Lords, ennobled and ermined, Rick knew that although his time had come, His career would be for others forever defined By his actions when young. He could not escape the events That made him rich, That to all intents At the time, proceeded without a hitch.
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Sitting on a nearby polished, mahogany chair, Edie, his PA, watched as, through the milling Ancient crowds of knighted and benighted, Lord Clare Approached, whiskey in one hand, spilling Drops before him, smile exact, Other hand extended in the perspiring Exuberance of an elderly scholar heavily prone towards fat, Offering a disreputable crammer to an academic underling.
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Lord Clare
Edie was a clever woman Of gentle ways, but stubborn. She took no shit from any man; Working with Rick for 5 years, she had borne His troubled insolence with disdain,
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Scrutinised his deals with horror, Marvelled at his subtle brain Marvelled, and admired with equal sorrow.
“Dear boy, welcome to the club.” Clare said with a smile, lowering his other hand As he crushed flat his cigar stub, He, the most populist politician in the land, Gregarious, loud and calculating Filled with ambition, Bibulous and insinuating, Full of carefully constructed derision.
Rick nervously returned his smile. In the pale breezes of early spring, the veranda was half-full The leafy scent of London lingered a while “Here, my lad, we play the fool, For money. For status. Spoiling our days Like fucking sultans In a number of undemanding ways.” He paused. “Bloody glad to have you in.”
Rick nodded and they shook hands once more. Wary of the contact, he looked down; The river, chugging past like a sedentary tidal bore, In places a rheumy grey, a gritty blue and turbulent brown, Held his gaze, glared back at him In ancient torment, slapping the shores With jagged waves smacking the boarded rim,
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As one of its diurnal chores.
“We need you here, old man, To bash the Labour buggers, make them squirm, To disrupt where you can And fight back when they turn. We need you to wheedle Obscure and jam Like an old record needle Whenever and wherever you can.”
Clare sucked his tangled teeth. Casting a sly glance at Edie yet again, He continued, blowing spittle out in dewy breath: “Now, dear boy, we mainly require you for gain! Of course, we cannot talk here.” He leant closer, noting Edie, and whispered. “Balling her yet?” Rick shook his head, and laid down his beer, His paunchy face expressing regret.
Clare finished, saying: “The PM wants to see you soon. Wait near the interview room.” Rick found the PM’s advance an unexpected boon. He was new to active politics, its highs and passages of gloom. He turned to Edie: “Wait here. I cannot explain yet.” He was new to analytics, its curious role in the House, But there was now no turning back, no right of regret, He’d pick the opportunity clean in the manner of an insatiable louse.
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2. The gothic carapace informed Of cathedrals that modified his youth, Turrets, medieval inspired Coloured glass, the austere reclamation of truth. Here, this antique glorification of class And privilege in an opaque shell Of aging/ageless art and voluminous self-generated gas Bridging ideals of heaven, causeways to hell.
Gregory, the Prime Minister, was an idealistUnusual in both the Lords and Commons. Reality, he believed, was elitist, Forming wonderful scents from appalling pongs. Educated at Cambridge, he believed in ideas, A politician by nature, he believed in nothing Except power. He believed in stoking the electorate’s fears With guile and enormous cunning.
His regular TV appearances were viewed with delight. Poised and glib, dressed in expensive suits, He expressed his Party’s ancient right To rule from well-cut hair to well-polished boots. He never raised his voice And laughed appropriately whenever required,
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Each tone a studied choice Each thought carefully hired.
For twenty years Rick had sponsored The Party, so Gregory had rewarded him well, Rick’s buccaneering past, his means of getting ahead, Was easy to forget, old rumours easy to dispel. Rick had made his fortune renting out slums, Added to that, ripped the heart from retail stores Manipulating the confusing sums Placing residue in accounts off-shore
Hiking rents had caused Homelessness in young tenants Young brittle lives were blithely stalled Young souls filled with dreary torments, Braving bitter streets, begging And occasionally dying in the cold Beneath signage and rigging The embrace of exclusive London shop doors with addicts and the old.
3. “Dear, dear boy. Are you in?” Gregory said with a smooth, soothing smile. “We need you, dear boy.” His smile turned to a spectral grin. “We need a man with your accomplished guile.” Playing with his fifty thousand pound watch On Rich’s shoulder he placed a steadying hand Holding him in his raptor clutch As he did the land.
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He occasionally showed his younger nature When dealing with stubborn fellow MPs Caught up in modest attempts at correct legislature In the antique halls of commonsense sleaze. Where bombast reigned Heroic figures fought with and against Uncomfortable truths-for results rarely gained In a world of cant.
In the shadows, waiting for orders, Kenneth lurked A charismatic man, back in opposition He still played the fool, irked When his act occasioned derision. Kenneth, in his career had represented all Viewpoints except his own, His convincing tongue his readiest tool As effective as the knottiest stone.
He’d been told of the deal Six months before He’d been told they required his spiel His street-wise lore. Wealthy already through shady transactions Kenneth ingested greed Without unnecessary exactions, Completely absorbing the entrepreneurial seed.
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The meeting was in a salubrious room With Edwardian facades deep in the Second House, Without intrusive noise, contained like a tomb, Political delivery, no matter how pompous, reduced to the twittering’s of a mouse All were gathered within its walnut walls Around an oblong table Assembled by the siren calls Of Gregory Barnstable.
Gregory looked around the table and smiled
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His hooded eyes rapaciously glued On each of those present. He allowed His gaze to linger, his suspicious mind to brood. “Gentlemen, we are here today” He began. “To become extraordinarily rich In the time-honoured way Of every politician, without publicity or glitch.”
The esteemed personages gathered there Raised their cherished glasses of ruby-coloured wine Shared exultant looks, stood up from each chair And toasted the PM in one obsequious whine Infused with gratitude and joy. Gregory pointed to the map displayed Like lucre on the table-here he would deploy His elaborate raid
‘Solent, a watery arch that smooths The Sun’s diurnal journey. Here, available land Will be transferred to your departments, fitted into unseen grooves, As when the sea envelopes sand. Here is real estate of unending beauty, An ancient forest primed for the hunt, An agreeable sea, yachts, millionaires’ booty, A population we can relocate, shunt
Into bleaker land Where they can live their weary lives While we expand Into vistas where only the best, not the worst, amongst us thrives.
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Under our direction our many contacts, Heads of state, billionaires and their families, Will be given cast-iron contracts All information placed in well locked files
In government controlled bank vaults Accessible only to those of us gathered here.” He insidiously gloats. “New towns will be created. We will tear Down every farm or village. We will reshape the Solent, Change the university into luxury flats, grasp, pillage, Make every straight line bent.
Also”, his finger stabbed the map. “The Isle of Wight will be requisitioned. Even more money, chaps, Carefully, equally apportioned.” Gregory settled back: “An inter-Party deal Making politics pay. Keeping politics real Letting nothing get in our way.”
His voice rose: “It is time, my friends, My esteemed conspirators, that we, Whichever way the grass bends, Should embrace true, unbridled luxury Classless corruption and palaces Perfect wine, perfect lovers, Gold from infinite, never-filled chalices
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Riches flowing from every crack we discover.”
Passing papers around, he returned to his theme. “Kenneth, you will oversee the project’s progress, Making certain no one hears of our scheme. You’ll be our policeman, forestalling any unforeseen mess.” Kenneth nodded: “Suit me down to the ground.” He affirmed in his Paisley growl. “Won’t know I’m around. I’ll pounce on trouble like an owl
Prowling the darkest night.” To Lord Chase he said: “Dear Jeremy, my old friend, Your job is to make connections. Suffer any slight To accomplish our end. Diplomacy is your greatest skill, Amongst many others Use it to instil Conviction in our conspiratorial brothers.”
Lord Chase preened in his inimitable fashion, Loving praise in self-adoration Worshiping the graven Image of his self-absorption. Gregory cast his watery gaze On Rick, the last of his chosen conspirators. “Dear friend, how well you have manage to raze The moral dimensions of life, tear asunder the moral resuscitators
Of business behaviour.
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That specific talent we need. We need you, my dear, as our terminator.” Gregory’s eyes twinkled, his voice swishing like a reed. “Destroying those who attempt To impede our lavish plan Who attempt to defeat Our scheduled empire of gain, when and where they can.”
Placing his tiny hands on the table, he rose. “Enough now, my friends, We have all to gain; nothing to lose. The die is cast, we now fatally pursue our chosen ends.” Like Roman conspirators seeking the throne They raised their glasses as one. “The die is cast!” They declared in triumphant tone Joyfully contemplating the imminent fun
Of empire building In a global economy Where morality was fast recedingAs each in that historic gathering could clearly see. “To greed!” They raised their glasses again, Envisaging a future of wealth and power All within their limited ken Absorbed into an unreflective bower.
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5.
EDIE
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They left returning to bustling offices With punctual PA s in woollen suits Immediately re-establishing contact with entrepreneurs, Financial wizards, ruthless dictators and political potentates, Around the corrupt and corruptible globe, Raking in bids like rain on a harvest, Wealth covering them like a bejewelled robe, A banquet, a feast!
New urban palaces rose in the beautiful valesOrganised by Rick, an interminable fixer, Villages bought up in secret sales, Quiet ponds, curvaceous hills, beaches, all for Rick to administer Like an amenable accountant Tending their pernicious gain A secondary, untroubled supplicant To unfelt and unnecessary shame.
Edie at first did not understand The sudden riotous activity centring on Her boss. Always she would hover, always at hand, Not yet sensing that something was wrong. The cavalcade of Eastern Europeans, Middle-Eastern Potentates, Chinese, Malaysian and Indian businessmen, Returning with remarkable precision, Like plump, poisoned fruit again and again,
Depositing dollars, yuan, jewels or gold Settling, each with an excessive entourage, In quiet villages, in which the inhabitants sold-
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Up within the month. Where everything suffered change. Villages becoming towns, obtrusive amongst rambling hills, Small towns acquiring slender skyscrapers Scintillating glass, polished metals, Shopping marts catering to the elite, right-wing papers-
Mashed-up ancient forests and dingly dells, Meandering lucent streams concreted over The babel-like tortuosity of modern hells Competing with rhapsodic clover. Each at once quiet and busy settlement Renamed; the land and politicians enriched The Solent now a global experiment The Isle of Wight to its silken coat-tails ably hitched.
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Edie saw all this as a modern phenomenon, Evolution of economy, not to be feared. But one day, while working late, she began to scan Some papers. All was, it seemed, not well. Discrepancies appeared. She noted with surprise the billions flooding in To Rick and Gregory’s private accounts, Far beyond possibility, to her concern and chagrin Too huge, too extraordinary, amounts.
Scanning and copying, she gathered Every document she could, Nervous and flustered
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She burst out into the cold Hailed a cab, and to an old lover Sped. While travelling there, in the gloom, She felt suddenly afraid. Trembling she tried to smother The feelings like locking away a monster in a tiny room.
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Arriving at Ahmed’s flat in Chelsea She fled the taxi as if beset by demons Ascending the stairs in her anxiety Pulled by an imaginary summons. Ahmed swiftly ushered her in when she knocked, Sitting her down on his luxurious settee He poured her whiskey stirred, diluted and rocked Waiting for her to settle down before starting his scrutiny.
Edie handed him her case. He opened it, Spilling the papers out on the table before him. He picked one up. The figures seemed explicitHe began to quietly skim Through each, his brow instantly furrowing As he turned over each page The information in each profoundly harrowing, And in the young journalist igniting rage.
With his growing rage was growing fear As one celebrated name after another Began slowly to appear. A cabal of powerful politicians, their family friends, specific lover,
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Industrialists and financiers, twenty in all, All silently slurping From the same muddied pool. Noses in and out of the trough, comfortably burping.
“Edie”, he began, “this is powerful stuff You’ve brought me. I need time to think. If I expose this, it could get rough, But I cannot as a journalist just let this be.” He put the papers to one side. “Leave this with me. I’ll contact you later, Not by email. For the moment, let this bide Until I’ve spoken to Fraser.”
7. Bob Fraser was the Sentinel’s long-time editor, A large perplexing man, a man of fierce integrity, Who was the robust curator Of investigative journalism and attacker of public perfidy, A life-time conspirator and negligent father A lover of younger women, Calm in a fight, never known to waver, Could steal a friend’s wife and return her grinning.
Ahmed ignored his manifest flaws, As he was a defender of the weak And eager opener of opportunity’s doors, A man that every serious journalist sought to seek, In the melee of corruption
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Of cover-ups, power-broking Patronising PMs and the odd MPs inconsequential moral eruption, Which tended to turn into regular public-derided self-soaking.
It was to Tom that Ahmed handed The papers, with his reflections attached, On to Tom’s corpulent lap they landed Where new plans were consequently hatched. Within the day, Tom and the PM Were stuck in conference Like two covetous foxes in a den Squabbling over recompense
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Rick was sorry to discover Edie Had a conscience as He preferred his staff to be morally free, To be unscrupulous enough to achieve success. Concern for the weak or poor And loving others, no matter who, Could be such a bore! And honestly being nice was never psychologically true.
Edie came into his office, expecting nothing But orders for the day, a copy of the day’s routine, Forgetting that in the rush that morning she had forgotten her lucky ring, And not having had her morning coffee, was in the bit of a dream.
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As she sat down, Rick began: “Edie, my dear.” He carefully expressed each sound. “Making lots of money does not make me less than my fellow man, Shit for others to pound.
For others, like you my dear, to disrespect.” She drew in her breath, sticking in her throat Like a football. Her mouth jerked open. “Disrespect?” She barked. “Exactly.” He replied. “An effortless quote.” He sarcastically said. “Nothing wrong, my dear, With making money if others make money too. Hope I’m coming over clear? I’d hate to confuse you?”
Her beating heart clashed with her courage. At first she had no defence. She squirmed before his unwavering gaze. Waiting for quittance. At last her mind cleared, her eyes narrowing She calmly said: “You cannot use a country, Leasing it to others. Burrowing Into its cities, with such enormous perfidy.
You cannot suck a people dry, Sell their lives with such contemptYou cannot permit a culture to die For billions of pounds rent.” “We can’t?” Rick replied. “We can’t? My dear, we have, we can. There is no will, won’t, shall, shan’t,
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All flung out like used thoughts in a prig’s dull ashcan.”
He paused. “The world has changed. The rich rule and the rest Will submit or be slowly expunged, Will serve or be squashed like any pest.” “Does that include me?” Edie frowned. “Will I too be dumped if found wanting?” Rick smiled again: “Pressed into the ground, My dear, like beautiful bunting
After a celebration, Pressed into the mud, Without consideration For the beauty and charm once loved.” He picked up his gold-nibbed pen. “If you make any fuss, Well, what can I say, then? Without being too melodramatic, what isn’t otherwise eradicated, we crush.”
His eyes were like deep penetrating pools His mouth satanic in its calculating mirth His mind a blooded trap for incautious fools Deluded in their assumed worth. He kept to the law, When the law enriched him, When it wasn’t a chore And made self-indulgence a sin.
Edie shivered, grasping the side of the chair,
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Her manicured nails retracted claws, Her face blood-free, riven with fear, Her breathe locked in a deep, agonising pause. Her lip trembled. Back in her office she slumped onto her desk, Until gloom set in and her brain reassembled Once again succumbing to embalming rest.
9. Ahmed was no fool, even for a journalist, He’d made other copies of the incriminating papers Arranging them together like an annalist Recording all kinds of historic capers. He knew, he knew, there were other ways To expose evil deeds, To make public when a powerful person strays, When a nation’s fragile soul, if it’s possible, bleeds.
He made some calls. Expose-an internet site for ideas and gossipWhich still enlightens, refreshes and appals, To absorb, to drink with depth or simply sip, Run by old friends in Saskatchewan, Bound by far-reaching forests, scratched at by bears,
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Rarely buffeted by the sun, Rigid morals, shallow cares.
Within the month the papers appeared, Filling the interactive void with shame, Shocking the world, inured To such exposures, for a week of blame and counter-blame. Gregory explained in measured tones To the gathered press That it was ridiculous to make bones Over a satisfactory deal, and, he had to happily confess,
One that brought such wealth into Britain, Benefiting all. He pointed out One clear fact of which he was fully certain, Other parts of Britain, could too have their futures turned about With an injection of billionaires, Of powerful dictators eager for a tenth home, Discarded kings, dubious heirs, Leaders who, to remain in power, choose to roam.
“This will increase GDP within five years.” He comforted. “Trouble makers want to destroy our growing prosperity, Do not allow them. Do not be misled. It is they who have the temerity To alter truth, tinker with our understanding. Sites such as Expose are the enemy, They are deriding Our success, they totally, heartily deserve our enmity
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The journalists who support and encourage Expose are our enemy. They are traitors to freedom And democracy. They seek to enrage You with slanderous suggestions! Resist their insistent drumBeat of twisted ideas. Eliminate and splatter their insidious chorus, Playing on your insecurities and fears. Treat them lightly; like the useless aged making unnecessary fuss
Over unimportant matters. You know? The water has Been poisoned by the Russians, It rains too much and too often. Alas, We never receive adequate pensions, Our children disrespect us. Let’s not become like the pointless old People who pester us, fire at everything with the proverbial blunderbuss, Making lead from gold.
This is a new beginning! The global economy Demands change! Those who oppose change Must be hunted down and destroyed so the rest of us stay free, Let us preserve status rather than rearrange Our societies to suit the vulnerable! Hunt down and destroy miscreant journalists!� Edie watched the speech, inconsolable And afraid. Outside her flat, her name on the official checklist, Secret police waited watching from a van, Waiting for a signal in the gentle cold, Waiting to see how the political debate ran
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Waiting to be told. Ahmed had days before left for Wales Where a year back he’d purchased an ancient Slate miner’s cottage, going cheap in end of the year sales; Writing a novel, initiating his long-dormant creative bent.
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Ahmed
He’d heard nothing from Edie, No email or call, Knowing her, he’d assumed she’d be Having a ball, Not realising how serious she’d become, Since they’d parted, After two years of exhaustive funNeither broken-hearted.
He at first could not believe That in Britain people might die For political reasons, nor perceive That many honest people could easily accept a lie, If expressed eloquently by an elite, The wealthy, the fortunate, The powerful, those never truly contrite, Fuelled by indeterminate
Violence and spite, intensifying ego, Self-absorption and fear. He thought of nothing beyond his trade, ergo He never truly believed that the fabric of society could tear Right down the centre Through design and wear, Through political forfeiture Without public concern or care.
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It took four days for the secret police To discover his holiday home. Five days to hack his internet and phone. Expose Was shut down, the tumbledown shack alone In the ice-heavy forest, where it was conceived, flattened Like the huffy second pig’s house The contents scattered Its founders marched south
And dumped in the blinding snow. Only Ahmed remained with his dreams, The fabricated heroic glow Of the courageous reporter on glorious headline-beams, Clothed in self-righteous slogans Fluttering like multi-coloured metal-reinforced rags, Sounding like cheap, irrelevant gongs, Looking in the end like spittle-drenched fags.
Walking in the mountains one day, the police spirited him away. There was nothing heroic. No martyrdom. They said nothing. They had nothing to say, Nor gave any clue to his likely doom. Arriving later in an admin. building By some innocuous river He was left in silence. There was no orchestrated chiding, No beatings, batterings or blather.
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The meeting convened in a newly built boardroom Close to the House, with beautiful Edwardian furniture Polished to reflection. This was the world’s fast approaching future, Of presidents and potentates From America, Russia and Asia, The most formidable states Ruling through favour.
World governance in the hands of a few For the few, not the many, To themselves completely true As long as such truth involved power and money. Gregory’s modulated tone now began to boom As he studied the gathered plutocracy. “Time for a new broom, Sweeping away the dead grasp of democracy. The strong few, ruling as we should, as god intended.” Glasses were raised in acknowledgement Celebrating as a better world was upended Honour through service malignantly rent.
“Again, welcome my friends. Welcome to a new and enduring order. The extraction of wealth suspends Popular political ordure. For Britain, gentlemen, the Lake District! Our next major project. We’ll make the backward communities there obsolete, Whoever or what is not useful, we eject.”
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Glancing around at the other gathered leaders, Gregory continued: “Not as grand a project as you each Have imagined, but an example to follow, accepters Of reality and force. The Lake District is a rich, Fecund area of beautiful lakes and forests, We will remake into a millionaire’s hideaway A paradise flowering like a florists Between shimmering water and trees that sway
In stiff backed embrace; Cities of brilliant light will be built on Lake Windermere By corporate slaves, Cities floating on artificial waves beneath frozen skies clear.
This deal will be even better than the last And I believe can lead to Britain PLC. Time of financial uncertainty is past For us, the future is now a financial spree, Of unknown riches galore, Of uncountable luxury Power, influence and more, We will eventually be
Beneath you, our peers, the most important people Amongst the world’s growing elite, At the highest point on another unholy steeple Both true to our calling yet counterfeit. Let our underlings labour,
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Crawl haphazardly within our shadows Without much hope of favour, Reflecting temporary light like oil in puddles.”
“Bravo.” The gathered leaders responded as one. Outside, clouds withdrew like curtains To reveal the afternoon sun, The city greenery gunge on middens As the political juggernaut Rolled slowly, irresistibly forward Both time and voters bought, Rule irrevocably streamlined toward
Gregory’s Palace
A simpler world where the powerful Create order and live in sure-footed contentment, Where everything is subject to a biannual cull, To forestall evolving resentment.
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People and practices redesigned for efficacy Modest slums in distant towns Far away from central profligacy From sparkling jewellery and silken gowns.
12 Edie had learnt not to fight Those with more power; She learnt that knowledge is a light That darkens within a shaded bower. She ran the Lake District with verve And an iron fist Rarely concealed in a silken glove Known to use force, never to ask or insist.
At night she lived the high lifeThe best martinis after lunch, Enjoying herself like a dancer on the sharp edge of a knife Sleeping with an assortment of men after brunch, Turning away from other’s scorn Away from her own, A berry resembling a twisted thorn, Never able to atone.
Ahmed understood the pointlessness
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Of his trade. He learnt Not to make a fuss Again. He’d got burntBeaten, buffeted, drugged, Deprived of his living, Effectively, if lawfully, mugged. He realised life was about taking not giving.
Head bowed, he scribbled doggerel For a marketing company In Ontario, doing quite well, Regularly acquiring an additional fee For ditties on birthday cardsIn small print-from hell, Gluing together the shards Of his life slowly, not well.
Gregory: king?
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