pig pens

Pig pens

There is no justice in England’s “fair” and “just” land,
When history’s written by the cold and the damned;
When the yes men are placed in positions of power,
That then covers the facts through a media shower.
And nothing is heard through all the public debate,
As nothing is heard from the secret unelected state,
About whose policy it was to simply increase the hate,
That Led to set football fans upon their fellow man,
By simply placing them in pig pens to hold back clans.

Then on one warm April Saturday in Sheffield City;
A huge disaster struck hard at a football field gritty,
Where fathers and sons who stood strong together,
Went to celebrate a city that was oppressed under
The cold hatred of a dour nasty government policy,
Of breaking this great nation’s industrial hierarchy;
Many wanted to show there was something proud
While City’s like Liverpool were just simply shut down.
And as the fans from miles came to watch the game,
They brought with them hope the city’s bright flame,
They never knew about the oncoming terrible disaster,
That was known by the minister’s satanic cruel laughter,
Who built the monstrous pig pens that held in the fans,
That crushed then them by a short sighted command?

Ninety six people died on that truly terrible day,
As the nation watched by, in shock and dismay,
And as T.V’s became filled with Dante’s inferno,
The people asked the honest question of who?
Who was to blame for this act of terrible shame?
Yet, no words came out from our elected leaders,
No voices came from their cold nasty policy makers,
Nothing was given as an honest straightforward fact,
As to who was responsible for this so terrible an act,
And nobody asked the most honest of questions:
Who was really responsible for building the pig pens
That through rough justice savage acts of poor policy,
In truth created the battles on these terraces bloody.
But nothing was heard of a nation’s strong union war cry
Why did ninety six innocent people have to die?

History defines its rulers; for they reshape the evidence,
It cowers out through acts that are mostly hidden;
And is controlled by watered and weak governance.
But nothing can really hide these cold hard facts:
That despite thirty four tears of inept hidden tracts;
That the football grounds at the time of the dying,
Where increasingly and decreasingly so crumbling;
It was in investment that needed at many old stadia,
Not pig pens, or fences, or controlling false media.
And as the bodies mounted up upon the damp pitch,
Not a word was spoken by the cold and dry old bitch,
Yet the pig pens were brought down from the grounds:
They disappeared overnight, without a single sound.

Now a generation has again been kept in the dark.
And our unelected unwanted postulating leader,
Has pointed his gout cracked, palsied fourth finger.
He proudly decrees in a show made for the T.V
That the blame indeed rests at yet another.
Here, he points towards a top inept police-man,
And then blames his poor and weak willed decision,
To falsely accuse him with Etonion voiced derision.
But behind elderly smirks and wagons piled with dirt
Through money he skirts the straightforward position.
Yes, He hides the truth yet again from one another,
But is this question now lost for ever after:
Who was it that stood so silent so cold so bloody and proud
The day the pig pens came silently down?

C-2013 adh