These are the grey poets
Of machine hell.
The squalid prophets
Of beaten humanity.
Reformists who promise
To turn the shit of mass production economy
Into a bed of roses.
Their uniform is the pink straitjacket
Of ideological correctness,
Their ideology
Is the limp prick
Of Stalinists terrorism,
Of anonymous denunciation
Of hatred, envy
And a knife in the back.
They fight state tyranny
By shouting stale slogans
At the police
From a safe distance
Across the street.
Their war is a war of words.
Their small-arms are their mouths
And their heavy weapons armchair mounted.
They are the enemies of freedom, joy and love
Capitalism‘s shock troopers in the Class War
They talk one hell of a revolution
As if Socialism was a dialect.
Solfed we are on to you. The crew at Internationaltimes, as has always been our policy, guarantee, the anonymity of any correspondent who brings us evidence of intimidation by this or any other self-proclaimed Socialist group. We shall overcome.
Mike Lesser