Gun me down


Broken ‘pon the Duluth wheel I was, just a couple of years ago.
The smiling snitch with the liar’s itch defamed me don’t ya know.
A state paid feminist, duplicity’s hedonist, my family in her sights.
With remorseless cruelty, and viscious surety gunned ’em down with great delight.

Virgil Caine, not my real name, returned from Afghan’s plains.
For a new life, with my wife, met just weeks before entrained.
From Yorkshire Dales to Banks’ Ales upped and left familial ties.
A government job, domesticity slob, we built and multiplied.

Blood neath my feet, the nation’s peat, made sense to me a yore.
Freedom of speech, naysayers weak, fought and won for centurys fore.
A man’s home his castle, State couldn’t hassle, Equality under the law.
And grace assumed, manners groomed, the pen mightier than the maw.

Well I don’t mind tellin’ you, inquisitive fellow dude, things are not so now.
A knock on the door, a concern du jour, Social worker furrows her brow.
And at that point, responsibility joint, Leviathan follows it’s macabre script.
Lambs to the slaughter, crooked solictor bought for ya, staring at the pit..

Broken ‘pon the Duluth wheel I was, just a couple of years ago.
The grinning snitch with the sadist’s itch destroyed me don’t ya know.
A state paid feminist, duplicitity’s hedonist, my legacy in her sights.
With remorseless cruelty, and viscious surety gunned it down with great delight.

Citizen Caine, backbone strained, from shouldering his manly burden.
Three young horrors, mortgage honoured, no complaints noted or murmured.
Looking forward to, the idyllic view, where nappies and wails no longer bother.
Where I could teach my kin, the simple things my family name always honour.

Lesbian couple annoyed, politically tannoyed, barren science no justification!
That wicked crew, pencil pushers few, smirk their indignation.
A lifestyle choice, politically correct voice, reproductive rights should accrue.
And what of Caine’s worthy name? Flush it down the toilet is what we’ll do!

Split him up, from love’s true cusp, with allegations of infidelity.
Ascertain, in referendum frame, that he has campaigned for brexit posterity.
How court this, bar a fascist’s twist, have any bearing on parental ability?
You are in a game, oh Citizen Caine, where truth an irrelevance and liability.

Broken ‘pon the Duluth wheel I was, just a couple of years ago
The slothlike bitch with the childsnatcher’s itch she raped me don’t ya know
A state paid feminist, duplicitity’s hedonist, wife’s sanity in her sights
With remorseless cruelty, and viscious surety gunned it down with great delight.

Frasier Caine, yes he was a pain, held to ideas of truth and right.
The judge will hear, don’t worry my dear, for this is an easy fight.
He did not bear, state silenced fear, others knew of family courts.
Friendly name, assumed fair game, ignorant to the blackout like a dork.

His cries of perjury, produced nil empathy, bored twisted comprador souls.
Who’ve heard it all, and seen it all, casual to the pantomime like ghouls.
Intellectualised, the evil that lies, is impossible to behold.
For one impressed, even to duress, that British justice to be bold.

And what of you, humble correspondent’s view, should make this sad old news? No smoke without fire, secret defamation is higher, would likely be your view. First they came for me, and my family to be, no concern of yours. Until that shrew, with doom scripted anew, knocks upon your door.

Broken ‘pon the Duluth wheel she was, too many years ago.
A foster child’s plight, dealer and parlour’s delight, they don’t do well ya know.
A state made feminist, fatherless predicates, future prospects not so bright.
With remorseless cruelty, and viscious surety was gunned down to Blair’s delight.

I’d rather be Abel, Cain’s hand is unstable, no dreams live in the land of Nod. Countenance thee, child of me, only maybe by the side of God. No redress for me, the PTSD, keeps me from the fight. And the smug bitch free, more evil destiny, no law she has not trod.

Cheerfully, and casually, the cunt called me up one night. Son’s doing great, oh except three days late, when happened he almost died. My angry tone, she put down the phone, it never bothered to view him safe. Police report, she who fear no tort, as abuse from an ingrate.

We must break the Duluth wheel you know, ere child’s lives be slaved. Sanctimonious power, Rotherham’s deflower’d, also caught the bitches’ racist gaze. Kill the feminists, don’t negotiate with terrorists, too far but can you blame? For you and thee, a mere poem will see, and gun me down unfazed.

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