Who are you, who holds my
Destiny in a shrivelled palm?
Whose flaky skin is food for
The media maggots.
Who are you, who commands vast
Armies; yet wears the milky white
Insignia of a virgin soldier?
Who are you, whose face of cheese
Crumbles with every spinning grin?
Which becomes fuel for the verminous
Creations of Rupert the bare-faced.
Who are you, whose shadow casts a pall
Across the Garden of Eden?
Which tiptoes through fresh graveyards
Of unnumbered innocents;
As silent as the truth which died on
Your bloody lips.
Who are you, who enchains the nation?
Smothered in a blizzard of red snowflakes.
Whose 'legacy' corrodes in the sea of salt;
The Dead Sea.
