Listen To The Voices Of Our Forefathers Poem by Mark Heathcote

The voice of our forefathers is oddly subdued
no longer do we hear their pain, toil, sweat, and blood
even if we could somehow guess with certitude
we'd not marvel at the lengths they went to turn back the flood.

Always, gates were open like a roaring fire
no walls constricted the icy-cold grip of death
lives before the NHS, it was a bittersweet briar
babies dying are put on hot coals at cease of breath.

What a parody if we measure our days,
against all their yesterday's, living hand-to-mouth
if we measure our difficulties, tooth-decays
their suffering, making pacts with the devil-like Faust.

Would it make you cry or laugh to compare ourselves
sadly, city streets rank-and-file line up with morose
-destitute men as compassions safety net shelves.
This wealth of healthcare cost-cutting hides comatose-

More problems to the public purse penny pinchers
in the future more than likely will cut free health care.
Guess then we'll remember our forefathers' timbers
as we shiver and sweat and die in fever threadbare.