“I have my final victory!
The man of words; the child of Thatcher cried.
Where is my wreath? My chariot of fire?”
“The slings and slurs I suffered so,
From wheezing academics in their ivory towers,
From triggered libs who turned me down with scorn,
Where is my crown of thorns?”
“There is no truth so sweet,
As the one that serves my purposes.
Lies unmade by victories,
Victories made by masses,
Masses that I call my own.
Where are my people?
The silent majority?
The angered national working class?
The sullen, resentful patriot,
To join me in my joy?”
A victory is won, indeed,
A victory that cost the world,
A dreadful burden came to him,
Not from telling truth to power,
But from having sold his soul.
But no one came to slap his back,
To pat is head, to shake his hand,
The man of words felt so alone,
His shouts rang hollow; the world had turned him down.
