To the High Court of Parliament and the Family Division

To Chester Court and to Judge S-son:
The poet’s curse. You know what you have done.

And ruin to the whole land through and through,
This land that is not fit to live in now.

The harlot’s cry that goes from street to street,
That laugh has weaved old England’s winding sheet.

By Cadr Idris and the River Dwyryd,
By land and God and by the Holy Spirit

A curse on all offices of state
And power and people who engage in it.

I met a girl in England twenty years,
The daughter of one of those foreigners

Which people England now, and rightly so.
She was a harlot, though I did not know.

She had a bastard child, and to do well
By her, I married. The entry into hell.

O I worked for my wages like a man,
But never earned as much as she could earn

By sitting on her arse on benefits
Which every idle English woman gets.

These years, the welfare state is a husband.
A man is just sperm today in England.

Religious, thinking highly of my people,
I married for honour and on principle.

I lived alone, apart about a decade
And sent her money while she was well paid

By the Department for work and pensions
By the National Health Service
By the Council Housing Association
By the Child Maintenance Service
And overseen by Social Services
With blessing from Child and family Support group
And the Family Court in Chester and Liverpool
Cheshire Police and the Mental health crisis team.

My curse on all of this emasculation,
O, inhuman dead organisation.

Though there were other forms of intervention,
Forget them now, of them do not make mention.

There were so many bad things that I saw
And bad indignities to undergo

Across more than a decade with that harlot;
And if you don’t believe me as I tell it,

That I was gentle, innocent and good
Then this, my curse, is also on your head.

I did the best I could, and then divorced her.
It took me fifteen years to get that order.

Now, let me tell you why I damn the race
And have become friend of their enemies.

Firstly, by order of the Family Court,
I have no children now, and have no right

To see them; so they have not got a dad.
Three years it took, to have this sentence read.

Yes, I can see them at a contact centre;
That was advised by the solicitor.

The things I said were true, and always true
And they believed me, and they seemed to know.

But still, from prejudice or hate of man,
Truth seems to fail, but lies thrive among men.

Was it because my representative
Was me, and not an English legal spiv?

She has the kids; a father they don't have.
Social, Police, Court, Government approve.

Now I was with the Royal Welsh in Basra
And did patrols in Bosnia as a Lancer

With the Ninth-Twelfth, and did a six month tour
With Royal Marines when I was twenty-four.

But, recently a judge in my own Chester
Awarded a non-molestation order

And said there was no sense in disputation,
It would be best to accept the allegation.

And so it went. My word was never trusted.
I’ve had my bank accounts opened and raided

With warrants signed by HM Government
So that they stole my money and account.

I’ve been accused and found a guilty man
In secret courts, no other reason than

The harlot said something, and was believed.
There’s something wrong with England, or the world.

But the other day, they told me that my house,
The place I bought to escape an insane spouse,

Is likely to be sold by Court order,
So that its money can be sent to her.

I'll be a tramp for all the good I've done
Because this judge is a true modern man.

All English men alive and here of late,
The same embarrassment and shameful fate

Will get you, too. This land is cursed and dead.
When Russians first went to Ukraine, I said,

That I would fight for them when called upon
Because my country could be fighting soon.

Today, and for all time I now intend
To pray for Russia and a happy end

To conflicts where our enemies will win.
Damn every Englishman, God bless Putin.

To Chester Court and to Judge --son:
The poet’s curse. You know what you have done.

And ruin to the whole land through and through
This land that is not fit to live in now.

Design Jason Powell, 2020.

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