The journalists have gathered,
The horses breath scorches their feet.
And the kids are fighting the coppers,
In some violent orgy on the street.
And the dancefloors of Valhalla,
Are filling fast with fervor,
And the Cross of Old Saint George,
Is now an ugly idol for murder.
The battlements are manning,
The youth are taking fight,
And the demons we call leaders,
Are scared to go out at night.
The children are tomorrow,
But the rich will be the smarter,
And the poor will be downtrodden,
Sign here for Anarchy’s charter.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem