Have you breathed-in
The low smog of lies,
Hung above, blinding,
These Sun-dark isles?
No whine ’bout foul weather
Fogging us in:
We maintain small insights
With screen-swiping.

Tablet-tat uploaded,
Each hour we surf,
Bad news is aborted
For a fresh royal birth:
Young doctors, low-paid,
The left, the long-ill,
Re-treated by the barons
With lethal press pills.

The Trade Union Bill
Is finally read:
Forebear’s blood-ceded,
Will no more be bled.
We’ll give up clear skies,
Embrace fogged land-fall,
So lifting our eyes
We’ll not see at all.

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