Darlings are you ready for the long winter's fall?
  said the lady in her parlor
  said the butler in the hall.
  Is there time for another?
  cried the drunkard in his sleep.
  Not likely
  said the little child. What's done
  the Lord can keep.
  And the vicar stands a-praying.
  And the television dies
  as the white dot flickers and is gone
  and no-one stops to cry.
  The big jet rumbles over runway miles
  that scar the patchwork green
  where slick tycoons and rich buffoons
  have opened up the seam
  of golden nights and champagne flights
  ad-man overkill
  and in the haze
  consumer crazed
  we take the sugar pill.
  Jagged fires mark the picket lines
  the politicians weep
  and mealy-mouthed
  through corridors of power on tip-toe creep.
  Come and see bureaucracy
  make its final heave
  and let the new disorder through
  while senses take their leave.
  Families screaming line the streets
  and put the windows through
  in corner shops
  where keepers kept
  the country's life-blood blue.
  Take their pick
  and try the trick
  with loaves and fishes shared
  and the vicar shouts
  as the lights go out,
  and no-one really cares.
    Dark Ages
  shaking the dead
  Closed pages
  better not read
  Cold rages
  burn in your head.