We became our own Cromwell,
learned the harshest lessons best,
our parishes hermetically sealed
with the national valve of non-return,
an island people on its knees
turned inwards from the heathen world.
We sang piety
in to each other’s face,
loved the pope and JFK,
all wavy hair and well-made teeth,
his one hand on the bible,
his other hand on his heart,
his blue eyed twinkle firmly fixed,
on Marilyn’s curvaceous breasts.
Times moves on
but doesn’t change,
Wulf remains our go-to guy
on how to fear and steal the light,
while at the gates
of the house of pain,
death takes a selfie.