Confused and bemused stare the young squinting eyes,
In the heart of steel city, under banners from ages gone by.
Living ghosts bat back indifferent sighs.
They look away from their lattes and buns of pulled pork.
With no idea of why they fought and why we still walk.
The cannon fodder of history; we don’t do small talk.
On once coal dusted pavements, on old Yorkshire streets,
Comrades in arms we gather to meet,
To demand fair justice and reject that defeat.
With pride in our stride and glints in our eyes,
We march as we did, under summer blue skies,
While in the gardens of Orgreave, grows treason and lies.
Lies about reasons,
From a treasonous state,
Forged in the fire,
Of class-war and hate.
Lies about power,
Lies about blame,
Lies about corruption:
The bastards have no shame.
Lies about the army, police, and the press,
Lies about brutality and false arrests.
They will lie while the sun shines
And the moon too I’ll bet,
But for that day in June,
We will never forgive
And we’ll never forget.
Missives & Musings 