There’s no arguing that idealism has its place, For if it does not flower, bloom, and spread its seeds As the dying dandelion casts downy remnants hither and yon, Then we have wept our tears and trodden in funereal processions In pursuit of nothing more tangible than the wind itself. That said, my boys, we shan’t live out our days In some misty fairyland where the streams run with single-malt And the trees are heavy with lamb and rashers; This world can be a bitter, unpleasant place (The unconditional love of mankind Being the sole province of Our Saviour) Where a man will give his wife a quick peck goodbye, Then give a swift kick to a limping puppy sitting on the stoop, Or the kindly veterinary will raise a lovely mouse Just below his missus’ right eye Upon returning from his local on a Friday night.
That ‘s the game as it’s played on this pitch, And injury time has a whole new meaning here, lads, For many’s the striker who is carried off With pennies over his eyes. Again, we have no quibble with Locke, Voltaire, And the rights of man, But know this: your leaflets will tear and blow away, And speeches which roll through Parliament and trade union halls Like great thunderstorms which blow in from the North Sea Shall fade into the silence of minutes bound and shelved away In some corner of the vast library of the forgotten. You may shun the handwork of Messrs. Lee and Enfield, Simpering that the rifle is the gavel of the coward, That the garrote plays the music of the ******. Tell us, then, where the bravery lies in scribbling crimson prose While ensconced in the warmth and safety of your rooms, What dignity is gained by meekly dropping your gaze When confronted by the stare of the Black and Tans? There is no valor in sighting down windmills.