Were there ever any

Were there ever any

Sensitive souls

Beautiful people

With good hearts

Did they ever get old

Was it always a lie

Told by greybeards

Old hands with mucus

In the corners of their eyes

Pale, dead skin as cold as fish

The lust of the old, wanting

The young to suffer

For their sins

Before they had any to die for.

Generations of children

Gone before supper

Sold to the market

Wrapped up in brown paper

Tied up with string

Stood against the wall

Shot down in a hail of resentment

Slack-jawed militants

With gravy stains

On their vests

Blaming the world and his mother

For their lack of grace

In the face of no future.

The best minds

Once passed this way

They played chess on a giant board

With real people

Moving them around

With cattle prods

Filled trucks with La-Z-Boys

Piled dirt over the excuses

Told tall stories

Over a pie and a pint

Whitewashing the lies

With nostalgia.

The names were always changing

To suit the prevailing times

Nothing happens

When the good people die

It is inevitable at some point

Nobody thinks it will be them

But only crabby old guys

Have the opportunity

To mourn the loss.