Fecking hell, as the Irish would say.

Fecking hell, as the Irish would say.

I have nothing

No wit nor wisdom

Few if any

Fine words

Little to ruffle feathers

Breach etiquette

Bring about change

In the state of play

The way people think

Is self-made.

There is nothing to be done

About burning

People whisper their sorrow

Blame is elsewhere

Decisions are remote

Voices of dissent

Are too easily silenced

Feel free to disagree

Is too easily said

When truth is held

Much closer to the chest

Tall towers blaze

Roman candles

Light up the night

Matchless

Infernos

Waiting

To render

Soft tissue

Hand ringing

Is no defence

Track my tears

They fail to reach the ground

There is too much heat

In my heart

To allow my words to fly.

After the event

When dust clouds hang

The orator

Can be heard

Mouthing

Autocued

Platitudes.

Out of shot

His pants are on fire.