The Darkest Hour Poem by Jimmy Inlow

Prescribed what we may read or watch
And who be seen or heard.
And if we seek non-sanctioned thoughts
The books we need are burned.
Taught 'truth' about our yesteryears
And how things came to be,
And when we seek the evidence
You censor what we see.
You war on choice, ban goods as bad
By mouth or nose or vein,
Whilst cronies push fast processed junk
For sake of corporate gain.
Cradle to graved how little wealth
And worth our lives can measure,
Beshadowed by your golden smile,
Your sparkling wit, your treasure.
Mortgaged to dwell in walls of tin
With dirt beneath our feet,
If we toward your mansion march,
You gas us in the street.

Told that we're all part of a chain
Of equals held in tension,
When queried quite which link is yours,
You smirk in condescension.
Point out the dirt beneath our boots
And say it's sacrosanct,
Worth countless lives this precious dust,
But foreign soil is rank.
Instructed whom to love and hate,
To smile or sneer upon,
And let our scorn reflect on you
We're branded trecherous scum.
Conscripted, forced to take up arms,
Instructed whom to kill,
Hanged by the neck with coward's rope
If conscience shuns such ill.
Bound fast by Acts that you decree
Are for the good of all,
And rubber-stamped and barbed-red-taped,
Boxed-up in total thrall.

When asked from whence your power comes
You say by God appointed,
And genuflect to holy oils
With which you were anointed.
But underneath your golden robes
Lie meat and bones and skin,
If stripped and naked, side by side,
Who'd know which of us king?
And when you next deliberate
Which pleasures to subdue,
Do not forget you're only one
And we the multitude.
Forget not calm precedes the storm,
Don't misconstrue our silence,
Our seeming acquiescence can
Flash quickly into violence.
And when it does it matters not
From whence your power comes.
Your house will fall, your line will end,
The earth will eat your bones.