There’s a lot of good people in the wasteland
Amongst the bastards on their lofty thrones.
Behind the screens we sit and form a band
And dare them all to break our thinning bones.
I’ll ne’er see thee, not eye to eye, but read
The tappings on your desk at witching hours
And mark the words of anguish and of need
To find some form of touch that topples towers.
Exit the dungeon. Matters not the likes
And loves forced at this time of the morn.
Support for fighting ghosts, or rousing strikes
To voice the discontent that feeds the scorn.
Their out there, in the wasteland, them good folk –
Don’t shrivel back and silent shrink away.
Above the turret poek and drop your cloak,
Eyes open, smiling, join our happy play…