You tell ‘your people’ to slow down He turned to see her wrinkled frown What ‘people’? He somewhat fazed You ‘people’ her face now blazed Her eyes had scanned his attire It was this that had set the fire His uniform was of the hated ‘others’ No individuals, just bands of brothers No logic here could be applied Her ears were deaf when he tried Like one car driver who holds the crown Who can tell ‘her people’ to slow down.
[To listen to this verse select below]
Commentary
This rhyme reflects a not uncommon experience of what it is like to be ‘the other’, i.e. a member of a perceived minority who are perceived as troublesome, or at least inconvenient. It is based on the recent experience of one of the group of cyclists I was with at our refreshment stop Brockweir Cafe and Farm Shop just outside Tintern in the UK. As he was waiting in the queue to pay for his refreshments an elderly lady seeing his cycling attire decided to issue her message about cyclists in her neighbourhood. She actually used the words ‘your people’ and seemed totally immune to the illogic of her protestations. A few weeks later, passing through Tintern, a male car driver again having mechanical trouble communicated through his wound down window about ‘you people’ to our little group of fellow travellers. Something to ponder about being in a minority – particularly a growing one?
If all the roads we could hack Turning all to one cycle track There would still be no fix Man would still wield his sticks Asserting rights over others True path only for the brothers.
[To listen to this verse select below]
Commentary
My part of the UK is blessed with a particularly long asphalted path for non-motorised traffic and pedestrians. I often muse on what life would be like if dedicated cycling routes were actually considered to be the key elements of the world’s sustainable transport infrastructure rather than the network of increasingly frenetic roads we actually have. In this alternative universe where cyclists were in the majority and individual motorised transport was (or returned to) a minority activity I suspect we would still generate conflicts and tensions. Would we need motorways (freeways) for cyclists so that the fast ‘serious cyclists’ weren’t inconvenienced by the slower, learners, children, pedestrians, dogs? Currently, navigating the multi-use non-motorised vehicle pathways we currently have can be like an obstacle course at peak times, bank holidays, and weekends with different types of cyclists and pedestrians all trying to co-exist – and sometimes not.
Troll Kings now ride the wave New prophets, the world to save Deadly weapons they now wield Vicious words seed virtual-field Fracking anxieties and discontents Fuelling egos, exploiting vents Thought leaders of the virtual age Putative masters of creating rage Recruiters for intellectual bubbles Silo builders for shared troubles.
So grains of sand can feel like rocks And tiny birds pretend they’re hawks So setting out to make their kill While claiming it is the people’s will Their message is, ‘destroy the nest’ For only they know know what is best And in their silos the people hear Because their world is full of fear.
Farage tapped the English soul Claiming out was his only goal Cameron fell and so left the stage Stoking fires of increasing rage Then Boris made his leader grab But was felled by Gove’s Brutus stab Arise the saviour Come What May “Out means out” was all she’d say.
Because Ed had left his brothers’ Band His Stone of Promises failed to stand So Comrade Corbyn had come to pass Minor Troll King of the working class His disciples dug a deep deep moat On which to launch their leaky boat To hold a Party for times gone by Only true believers need apply Comrade Corbyn denied the link He as Captain would make it sink
General Elections he may not win
But he only existed to expunge the sin
Of heretics from the New Labour sect
So comrades again command respect Come What May had gold struck She just could not believe her luck How all the stars could so align Surely this was a sacred sign.
But now, even bigger kites would fly Enter true Grand Masters of the virtual lie.
Apprentice seducer makes Trumpet call Roaring promises of a mighty wall “Keep them out” became his war cry “Push them out” meant his lesser fry Irradiating patriotism until mutations form So cancerous nationalism becomes the norm And in its magnetic lies and hyperbole Attractive solutions to set them free Spawned post-truths that did so resonate Bypassing any intellectual gate Mind antibodies readied to deploy Nascent dissonance to destroy.
Putin could so rub his hands with glee As such Trumpet notes were his key His virtual missiles now had the range For targeting insecurities of global change Anxieties and prejudices that lay beneath Were nudged now into sharp relief So Clinton fell and she was no more As Trumpet blasted through the door And so the Troll Kings to their surprise Found they had won their mighty prize.
Meanwhile, on East Asia’s stage An angry Troll King paced his cage For half-brother love he had none So he knew what must now be done So Kim Jong-nam met sticky end Flyers’ VX face-cream now latest trend For projecting power and striking fear Into non-believers in leaders dear.
And in Europe too, things look tough As motley prophets strut and puff Promising Utopias by going alone As long as they ascend the throne “Keep them out” is their war cry “Push them out” means lesser fry But making ‘the other’ disappear Removes how Troll Kings focus fear And then new villains must be found “Enemy of the People” become Trumpet sound.
But such Troll Kings don’t exist to lead For it’s ego furnaces that drive their need Populist woodlands must now provide the fuel Where such wolves feed and dribble drool The populus however will prove fickle food For the Troll Kings have so misunderstood That true leaders always put others first Discarding approbation to slake ego’s thirst.