Machine

Colin Cross, Going Postal
 

Hidden deep in the bowels of the ABBC

There’s a locked bolted door that very few see

This portal’s not remarkable in a noticeable way

Ask “what’s behind there”, “I don’t know” they’ll say

But those that have access are the top of the cream

The pezzonovante of the management team

 

Behind this bland postern, quietly vibrating

Stands a piece of equipment patiently waiting

1970’s engineering, all gleaming and shiny

If they built it today it would probably be tiny

Its true function is known to none but the few

But experience its power and you’ll come out brand new

 

Remember the footballer, all jug eared and happy

And those edgy comedians, quick witted and snappy

The current affairs team, all antagonistic grilling

And the foreign correspondents, so brave and so willing

Those radio popsters, the DJ’s and chat hosts

Now all bland and faceless, entertaining by rote

 

Many famous faces have passed through this door

And marvelled in wonder, at what stands before

Polished knobs, metal switches and black plastic dials

Reflecting back at them their own nervous smiles

In the centre of the room stands a chair, vaguely dental

With straps for wrist and ankle, at first it seems mental

 

The DG turns and speaks in hushed soothing tones

Please switch off your I pad, your tablet, your phones

For you have been chosen, to join those most elite

A process quite simple, almost painless and neat

A spell in the chair, for at most just one hour

Will bring you great wealth, adulation and power

 

What you see here before you, though it might look forbidding

Is for you my dear colleague, just the end of your beginning

The penultimate chapter in your final transition

From independent thinker to broadcaster on a mission

When you leave here you’ll deliver what we tell you to say

Without question, fear or favour, in the ABBC way

 

I see from your face a question forming, maybe two

But let me be frank, we don’t answer to you

You entered this room of your own chosen volition

And what happens to you now comes without pre condition

You shouldn’t ever notice any difference or change

Although challenging the narrative could make you feel strange

 

 

Just sit in the chair friend, relax, take it easy

And please, dont worry, if at first you feel queasy

The straps are for your safety, case you go for your eyes

It happened before which caused us quite a surprise

One little injection an aid for your calm

Believe me when I tell you, very few come to harm

 

There that wasn’t bad now, over in trice

Though the vomit down your jacket doesn’t smell nice

You’ve joined the anointed; you’re top of your game

I hope that you’re ready for the wealth and the fame

The only condition that we put onto you

Is that you never say sorry whatever you do

 

We’ll cover your back, we’ll fight tooth and nail

But some things, remember, are beyond the pale

Don’t ever get married, say puff, darkie or queer

Don’t ever mention Islam or if you do please don’t sneer

Immigrants are good, the whole of the time

And remember we made them do it, when they commit crime

 

A suicide bomber is a Norwegian DJ

A knife attacker’s a loner who’s just lost his way

Always stick to this script, please don’t make an error

By working like this we can deny Jihad terror

Your conscience is virgin, your thoughts are now clean

Please send in the next candidate for the indoctrination machine
 

© Coloniescross 2018