bristol sound

listen to the beat of swaying feet
that creak beneath bare trees
and hear the breath of yesterday
playing in the leaves

the tattered flags of rags
hung down scarecrow knees
the rebel sons of riot got caught,
exported to expire in toil on sunburnt fields

does it matter that the caves
that supported these proud banks
once groaned with the shackled branded and enslaved?
that the rivers of blood that shekled this trade
that built these streets with stains of red were paved?

that these docks uprooted and transplanted
entire nations to plantations
orphans, betrayed and underhanded
robbed of history and permanently rebranded?

so who inherits this dockside town
who bears it's ill-renoun and stands up in it's dock of shame

does it matter when the sun is shining
and the city looks benign
and pretty people flip flop down the streets
in chilled and breezy ease?

with every week a spectacle
to keep us entertained
content with bread and circuses,
we'll cheer the media games

we'll gaze in struck-dumb wonder,
at the crystal leisure domes
giddy with our reckless credit,
we'll buy it all if we are able
and stuff our faces till we're numb
with crumbs from the merchants' table

after all who cares, we weren't there
they're dead, it's not our problem now its theirs
their cries aren't here to stain our ears
those tears can't soil our eyes
their pain won't ruin our years
cos history's the stuff of squares

so lets chill out and party,
this banquet's hardly tasted
it's friday night so lets forget,
so lets get out, get wasted