The sum-total of somethings is still something

Yet the sum-total of nothings is always nothing

It’s always nothing

So fight even to loose

As the blood from your knuckles will still stain the future

March angry

Inactive sat on your sofas

To the beat of News

Which speaks loud enough to

Double-times your heart’s fear – go on, run now, leave

But He’s tied your shoe-laces, too

With tales as tall as West Bank walls: the world is burning out there

An invasion of alien ideals has landed

On the beaches beneath those white cliffs

Your forefathers and forefather’s father fort to keep clean

Though the irony it was for those exact same ideals

Is lost on you

In lay-byes

At least this knowledge weighs heavy on my chest

And is not the empty weightlessness of an ignorance

Who’s bliss will only last as long a

The tyrant takes to wake you from it