For Whom The Bell Tolls, Anew Poem by Mad Gone

My feet pound these streets once more,
But now they are no longer sore.
The street familiar in the light of day,
I am sure I have once been this way.

While, soles thread lighter now out of boots,
No longer threading upon such hated roots.
The pavement now clear from all the clutter,
As politicians pull us from the gutter.

While Stormont can hardly police itself,
With all the private family's wealth.
Peter and Iris are in the counting house,
Raising flames, they bend to douse.

Gerry has had his fair share of grief,
Much, to many unionists quiet relief.
With Skeletons falling from the closet,
Rough justice would fail to ever stop it.

With key figures in talks distracted,
Lower party members are now contracted.
They set themselves to bargain hard,
Reading out scripts on pre-printed title card.

Below the hill the kettle begins to boil,
Plans of peace they aim to spoil.
While hopes are placed upon the selected few,
Now lacking any (if ever) creditability due.

While nightmares still often rudely wake,
The peace to past spectators, still so fake.
Pull the mirrors out once again,
Or listen to another family's pain.

Have we not been down this road before?
Sunningdale, now nothing more than pure folklore.
Stock the barrels, dig the hole and fill the loft,
For little can be achieved by this silly bunch of (cough!) .

The people of this land are so often called its treasure,
what blunt instrument did they choose to measure.
For I was the enemy you chose to kill that night,
The bomb, my neighbour failed to ignite.

Do you still have to ask for whom the bell tolls?
As the news presenters read out death rolls.
If not to simply prod the streets to keep the peace,
Then walk, not march, to let your children feast.