The imprimatur of the past is stamped upon the now
and maybe by assessing it we can attempt to unearth how.
Periods have their parallels like the phases of the moon,
waves of insanity crash upon humanity like a full blown loon.
Decades echo down the years as the planet burns,
revolving passages of grief from which nobody learns.
The nation struggles with inflation, industrial strife and crime,
civil unrest, disillusionment, racism and warfare in our time;
dictators flourish everywhere as liberal values buckle.
The only lingua franca the assault rifle and the knuckle.
While England’s finally proud and gay in Nigeria you get stoned
for the love that dare not speak its name, for which once Wilde atoned.
In Mountbatten’s fearful wake nuclear armies bake across a border
drawn by colonial rats fleeing a sinking ship bereft of order.
As Europe strives to aggregate we drift off into the blitz
and Rwanda beckons for the refugees who seek our midst.
Tempus fugit and by God it fugits now!