He said, There are slaves in the hands of the banks, slaves in the arms of the state, slaves to the wage, to the zero-hour contract, slaves to the zero-hour rate.
I met him at night by the boating lake where the fountain jumps and plays. He said, Don’t be scared. I am not a ghost. I’m not of those far-off days. spartacus mmxii
He said, You can’t see the chains for the rust. You can’t see the whips for the scars. You can’t see the crosses for the dust, but we’re still fighting where you are. He said, There are slaves in the hands
He said, Look for the hill where the ragwort grows, the slope where the dog-rose climbs. Meet me tonight with a brick or a stone, with a bottle or a bottle of rhymes. I am not a ghost
And I’d heard of his final battle, the last stand, and his crucifixion there, and the famous story of how his body was never found anywhere.
So I went to the hill where the ragwort grows, the slope where the dog-rose leans, with a half-brick wrapped in a carrier bag, with a copy of Big Issue magazine.
He said, You can’t see the chains for the rust. You can’t see the whips for the scars. You can’t see the crosses for the dust, but we’re still fighting where you are.