The living haunt the dead with screaming eyes
Natural ,murder, war or suicide
Epidemics,plagues, the double crossed
The cemeteries would have been surpassed
Reduced to ash, the bodies once caressed
Disappear in flames, a Candlemass
We linger on the borders ,loth to move
Every cell with grieving is imbued.
The knock on the front door, the English park
The victims of the knife, the once blessed hearts
Is this England, where the tea, the pot?
All our old civilities forgot
No home fire burning coal with leaping flames
Boilers burning gas to heat our homes
Remind us of the dead, the Jews and Gays
Gypsies, backward children, where the graves?
In the end all selfhood gone, removed
No individual plot, no flowers ,headstones
No flesh, no eyes, not even just one bone
Haunt your cemetery if you must
The sun shines on the evil and the just
Is this England, where the tea, the pot?
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