High Places

Jim, Going Postal

High Places

Britain’s hallowed corridors of power, invested with the great and good

 Aren’t confined to Westminster, Cardiff, Stormont or Holyrood

In every Council Building, Mansion House, Mayors Office and Town Hall

People devoid of empathy or conscience take decisions that impact us all

Without thought they take their lead from Brussels, Common Purpose too

Never a consideration or backward glance at the plebs, (that’s me and you)

 

 

The fourth estate has joined them in their lust for money and power

They pretend to higher standards but play the con on the point of the hour

The Newspapers too are infested with sensationalists, snowflakes and such

Would a dose of truth, now and again, be asking a little too much?

Every phrase is prefixed with such words as we understand, could, might or may

The half truths, blatant lies and obfuscations get more outrageous every day

 

 

The police that once acted with full consent are now a service, not a force

They serve a different master now whether driving, walking or at horse

Crimes against the home and person are rising at a rate most alarming

But Police Scotland, Wiltshire plod and the Met spend their days just farming

Trawling through Twitter Gab and Facebook, Instagram and Snapchat too

With the odd visit to Guido, The Slog and Going Postal, believe me it’s all true

 

 

Charity and philanthropy, things of which we once were proud

Now exist to serve the greed and depravity of the Quangocratic crowd

Never mind that you’re a failure, in politics, civil service or the high arts

Make the right noises, scratch the right backs, you’ll get the best of starts

Become a Chairman or a CEO, a Medical Director of in country missions

Thousands might die on your watch; you’ll be rewarded for your awful decisions

 

 

Our NHS, that jewel in the crown, that beloved treasure of our nation

Is top heavy and weighted down with many people above their station

They waste and they lie, overspend and cheat whilst being paid great riches

They couldn’t care less, one way or another, what’s buried beneath the stitches

It’s never been wrong and it will never take blame for its often deadly outcomes

Instead, give us more money, the old are to blame, beat the incessant jungle drums

 

 

The Law is an ass, they used to proclaim but now its rotten to its Oxbridge core

Solicitors, barristers, Queens Council and Judges quite willingly play the whore

Our laws are interpreted for the few, not the many, without any care

So long as the “human right” isn’t affected judgment is equitable and fair

This murky, tacky underworld gives us many politicians of renown and note

By lying, frightening, spinning and cajoling they’ll gladly abuse your vote

 

 

I remember a time, not too long ago, when the vicar was humble and kind

He tended his flock, visited the bereaved thought of self never crossing his mind

Now the clergy sits in the vanguard of the politically correct cognoscenti

Its vapid message of diversity and inclusion rings hollow base and empty

Church leaders are now openly political in the worst of all possible ways

They forget that by their own Christian credo they hasten the end of days

 

 

The educational establishment, quite ignorant of its unique position

Brainwashes, enables and indoctrinates with an almost religious conviction

Our children are captured at early age and force fed a warped version of truth

No wonder we see the consequence in our poorly educated youth

But blithely on their way they go from primary teacher to Uni Don

Creating a society of mindless drones that will carry their message on

 

 

High places have been created and filled with people of equal outlook

You can call them “liberals” if you like they’re all singing from the same book

They revel in degeneracy, hiding their dubious “mores” in plain sight

There’s nothing they hate more than being exposed to “conservative” light

The time is come to call them out for what they do and who they are

I suppose the only question is, have we let them go too far?

 

© Colin Cross 2018
 

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