The Embodiment Of Wrong Poem by Peter Vealey

This man
What can you say?
Everything is wrong.
The look, the template
The mocking sneer, the empty veneer.
Everything
The embodiment of wrong.
The suit, the tie,
The old public school lie.
Doff, toff and spy.
What can you say?
Everything is wrong
Yet you believe
Under the art of old British fair play,
First past the post
That maybe there is no other answer.
When maybe all along
He has
Been the problem.
The embodiment of wrong.
You don`t have to
Know his name.
Now so keen to be
The triumphant trampling celebrant.
The war is over.
Yet do we feel
We won.
The 'one nation' has begun?
Yet the rot is in
'The Sun'.
The pure embodiment of wrong.
Why I was born to care.
To be fair and square.
Why I wanted
To be there
For everyone.
The embodiment of Englishness,
Kind, compassionate and strong.