The Comedy of Giants

The Comedy of Giants


     I once ran these hills without breaking a sweat,

And camped upon the summit of Englands tallest -

Singing punk lullabies at night, while

The stars danced merriment upon the eye,

     Those years were the personal victory

Of a boy who came from a town that only wanted

To cripple and belittle the shining ones;

To take away all that our elders feared and envied,

But the heart could pump quicker than their

Shot gun loathing and corrupt designs,


There I was dancing upon the Pike,

My radio broadcasting my songs of rebellion

To the nation, a nation still to this day,

Crucifying our youngest of hopefuls,

     And I never wanted to be that low again;

That low I wished for a father I had never met -

To take me away from the dead of a Northern Town.


     Fifty years on now,

Fifty years still struggling and though,

I can afford shoes that fit,

Though I am not ‘that’ child wearing

Clowns shoes to school - put together

With masking tape to stop them talking,

     I am still at the mercy of calculated

Gods who despise both men and boys;

Gods who lust for the rot of children upon

This globe,

     Humility has no understanding

Of the loss, just snide remarks and laughter

At ‘all’ that has been done unto them,

Unto me!


     A brief time in five decades of

Struggle, that’s all, no more,

I could fly like a bird with wings

That could span the Earth,

And I loved this Earth so,

The multitude of sights and sounds,

The vibrant colours of tropical wonders,

And yes, the many people who like I,

Never had soles of protection to wear,

But whose souls one would seek for

Company, kin and love,



The passage of time dictates

This once lithe human dies though

The heart is young,

     I may live for another fifty

Some say - but not I,

Not upon a World where abuse

Of our young is gathering momentum

And any who have the power to stop it,

Are stripped,

     Our World, like this young

Heart that wants so much for

The wonder to return;

Is coming to a sad and sorrowful

Conclusion; everything of love

Has only a fleeting chance,

A slight of time where flight

Can soar and swoop and travel

On currents of warmth high into the sky,

     For one day soon,

The rocks beckon below,

     Old, majestic, untroubled by

Spawning youth for they have always been,

Always ready for the blood and bone

To be smashed,

     And I would swear the mountainside

Grins as clouds paint different pictures every day,

For no matter how hard ‘we’ try,

They will always persist their long

And arduous way, the comedy;

The hopes and beliefs of children.


Michael J Waite 30th April 2017.



◄ Spite Britannia

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