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Ian S. Bolton

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Wolverhampton, England, UK

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Deliverance

by

Ian S. Bolton

Their bustling appearance knelt and prayed.
Frightened he was, but not delayed.
The afternoon warm; the Commander called;
Memorising reams, old and bald.

Automatic feeding in the Eastern Cape.
The servants are dead, there's pillage and rape.
I've been killed ten times: no callers, no fuss.
The Earl of Essex? Arranged through us.

Tones changed so strangely, his third of the day;
An argument involving the room disarrayed.
People were cruel; a pastoral street.
Two storeys high, and very discreet.

What do I do out on the dock?
A number of men in deepest shock.
Her telephone tapped - spies did the bugging.
Black men and white men; robberies and mugging.

Mud on your face, tell me some more:
They look at you always, increasing the score.
The police overrun, transport decayed.
Frightened he was, but not delayed.

Stockings and garters, detention cells,
Daniel Blank's diary, the sound of dead bells.
Norman was home; Sheila broke a day.
Despatch of Almighty blew them away.

Emotion has gone, we don't exist.
Machine-guns and soldiers, shooting, they missed.
The skies are so black; dead bodies, too.
Defence System's out, dying, like you.

Old streets are torn; young maps destroyed;
Exposed for days to horrific void.
The Q-bombs still fall, the people still die;
Off tower blocks they're trying to fly.

Blood on your face, tell me some more:
They're shooting you always, increasing the score.
Dead men and dogs found on the street.
Time of arrival is time of retreat.