You won’t be forgiven 

for the belt road you are living

for flat miles that you have driven

over roadkill stacked and striven

on your blood red ride to hell

You, the swollen high-ups,

laced with torture-rapture tie-ups

with your knuckles ever-tightening

as you find your slippage frightening

as your power-base is slightening

with the carcass-burning smell

down your Red World Wishing Well

You who stole fresh organs in the back of a theatre van

in white surgeons’ robes like the white sack Ku Klux Klan

you who will be little more than an ugly also-ran

You, not your people, you, not your citizens

you and your followers will have your just deserts

you who lead the sleepy to the place that really hurts

You won’t be forgiven 

for the good books that you flattened*

for the good folk you have batoned

for the evil you have fashioned

on your blood red road to hell.