Show me three gift-less paupers and a shrouded starless night
vacant rooms and fears allayed a Royal beauty shining bright
a crown of thorns unpicked of brambles and a covenant of rights
our truth is marching on

Give them all stamped passports with passage calm and free
give them life-preservers on a milky charted flat-top sea
give them shoes and food not fished from bins contamination free
our truth is marching on

Sheath the terrible swift sword to fall un-blooded by your side
and un-blind the blinded eyes for which the saviour worthless cried
then crush the Serpents head tear out the fork with which he lied
our truth is marching on

For my eyes have seen the sadness in the coming of the hordes
who’s minds are scarred with madness only ignorance affords
as the hulking vessels smash their precious cargo on our shores
our truth is marching on

So
Glory glory hallelujah
Glory glory hallelujah
we erased your filthy names before we knew ya
our truth is marching on

© Wolfgar 2018

Put the leaves back on the trees,
grow the skin across the bone,
dream the words onto the page,
this land is but a scar regrown.

Grow the skin across the bone, 
dream the words onto the page,
this land is but a scar regrown,
it feeds upon each bygone age.

Dream the words onto the page,
the ink is blood much bled before,
its flow you never will assuage,
its what our hearts keep beating for.

This land is but a scar regrown
each strata laid is ever new,
its timeless wound forgot, unknown,
new pores to let the blood bleed through.

So put the leaves back on the trees
give back with love what nature took,
our time we steal like hapless thieves
our lives mere chapters in a book.

© Wolfgar 2018

Angels are best cast out
before that they are merely slaves
God in his fury frees them
and regrets it for the rest of days

I met one in Le Sacré-Cœur
she flew out of a frame
burned upon re-entry
she took refuge by the Seine

We ended up in Le Pigalle
in a club called Crazy Horse
she slid the pole so heavenly
bound straight for hell of course

The best is often thrown away
the best is often waste
my eyes are cast to hell I’d say
for there my senses taste

the things that God forbids us
the things he keeps for self
but I am not for keeping
his teachings on the shelf

I took her down to Sainte-Chapelle
where we spied her in the glass
she folds her face to my lapel
now the Angel’s mine at last

© Wolfgar 2018