Harry Gallagher


The world feels filled with boiling oil,
bubbling riotous from its innards,
the Keep Out! signs are mounted
in gardens bristling with nettles.

Meanwhile a spit over the channel,
they’re crunching through the streets
over broken café glasses,
smashed by thorny sons
sheared off from England’s roses.

While back in bitter Blighty,
the pill is being swallowed
by those crouched under weights
being piled onto the scale.

To take the side of liars
or cosy up to their henchmen,
whose swastika’d foot soldiers
run amok in Marseilles sunshine.

Turning back the years,
taking back their country
from no one but the poor sods
on the next rung down



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