yawn (suns of britain)

Wake up in the morning which opens up instinctively like your yawning mouth, trying to find air to breathe,

Phone on, turns south, screen beams screams back at you

No new news story, same old Tories, getting gory, that Trump’s a chump, a C-U-N-T (cunt), bring back the fox hunt! Brexit, we’ll make a mess of it, Great Britain’s glory is a boring part of history, the future seems to be nothing to do with me and what I believe in,

I’m scared

You’re scared

The sportswear punk’s yawns are like flares that no one else is seeing, that no ears hear

No ears hear the searing sips of bargain bucket beer I take in my garden between screaming-“fuck it”-sighs which evaporate hot, clear tears streaming, thundering, from cheek to chin to shoulder like transparent boulders

Because the sensitivities of those near, far and wide are older, colder, clamping shut their eyes, closing their minds to remember golder times, “the golden days” – give me a break

I’m scared

You’re scared

Unprepared for World War 3 when it’s declared by ignorance with bloated guts, skin like pus, silly haircuts, silly haircuts

But. But.

But you can finish up your yawn

Bear your teeth like thorns and grit them

The anachronists can look back and sit and remember – but we can stand up and dream about forever,

Let’s sever old-rope ties, expose lies, empathise, sympathise with the young, old, black, white

Let’s wipe away the sleep in our eyes and use our time to make something of our lives

Let’s feel the suns that shine, the suns of Britain.

So finish up your yawn

Bear your teeth like thorns and grit them

We are the suns of Britain.

We are the suns of Britain.