‘A dreary tribe of high minded women and sandal wearers and bearded fruit juice drinkers, who come flocking towards the smell of ‘progress’ like bluebottles to a dead cat’. (Orwell)

All these decades later they’re still here,

High minded, sandal wearing and sincere

In their contempt for others, like them,

Whose Anglo Saxon natures they condemn.

They still drink fruit juice, eat the vegan way,

And know the very latest things to say,

That show that they belong, are in the loop,

Are members of the dreary, bossy group,

Whose whole purpose is to sneer and annoy,

Whose ‘raison d’etre’ is to crush, and to destroy,

And pull the rugs from under people’s feet,

By claiming this is ‘progress’. Their conceit

Astonishes, they have the will

To take back freedom dearly won and fill

The void with harsh dictatorship, they think benign,

Not comprehending imposition by design

Is incompatible with what is good.

They sideline rules, condemn what’s understood,

Believe their fellow men, lumped as one mass,

Beneath the salt, beyond the pale, the working class.