You’re angry that ‘your’ queen is dead
And you know that I don’t care
You’re angry that I don’t recognise
Her ‘rightful Son and Heir’
You’re angry that I don’t show ‘respect’
To something I don’t believe
You’re angry that I have the freedom
To choose when I should grieve
You’re angry, that unlike you,
I wasn’t put upon this earth
To bow and scrape and know my place,
Like some medieval serf
You’re Angry that somehow,
I’m allowed a point of view
You’re angry when you realise
I don’t agree with you
You’re angry that I don’t embrace
Your feudalistic rules
You’re angry because you know that I despise
Such grovelling, fawning fools
But you see, I am angry too
About so many different things
Born in a world of sycophants,
And all the grief it brings
I’m angry at the BBC, the Daily Mail,
The morons that they quote
The puerile propaganda
They’re ramming down my throat
I’m angry that I’m mourning,
For a vision that has gone
Angry that we can’t make a world
That works for everyone
I’m angry that we’re still held back
By forelock tuggers such as you
Angry that you’re wedded to your masters
And your own outdated view
I’m angry that you worship
The people at the top
Your whole world’s an anachronism
It really has to stop.
Kevan Hughes
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