"Good Luck" (a poem)

Through a venerable valley of values,
he strives to start something sensible.
'Whatever will be, will be waiting,'
he unconsciously utters, unnerving us.
Letters leave London, letterbombs litter lives,
maiming many Men and making me mumble 'mercy'.
No-one nameless, nowhere nascent, nothing new.
An array of amateur attempts at autocracy.
Behind battered battlements, boys become benign
and billionaire bureaucrats benefit.
Call out and cry for common sense,
cradle your comforts and crawl towards catharsis,
but know that noble Knights no longer know you.
You're alone, and you're in this together.

RC 11-2-26