The Watchman stood with empty hand, dismissed for drawing out his blade,
While felons walked with lifted brows, by law and lectured rite obeyed.
The lords who sit in cloaks of silk have gagged the tongue that calls for aid,
And virtue stands before the court, accused by vice in justice' shade.
The towers built by iron will, by oath and ancient constable,
Now house the wolves in polished suits, where truth is mocked, and right is null.
The voice that dares to cry aloud is marked for shame and fined with scorn,
While thieves and tyrants write the codes the broken crowds must now be sworn.
The charter sealed at Runnymede lies buried deep beneath the floor,
Its clauses trimmed by modern hands that mock the freemen it once swore.
The writ of habeas lies asleep, where lawyers now with bold pretense
Unchain the beast, but bind the just, law stripped of reason, void of sense.
The constable who dared to stand, by Peel’s own code of trust and care,
Now finds his badge a mark of shame, his oath betrayed by cold despair.
For justice, once the people's shield, is now the tyrant's brittle mask,
And “public good” the twisted cry of those who shirk their noble task.
The markets fund the magistrates, the gavel bows to global aims,
And rights are weighed in carbon counts while faith is taxed and speech in chains.
The censors trim the thought unborn; the child must chant what he is told,
While men are jailed for ancient verse, and women fined for being bold.
O Albion! What dream you nursed, of equal law and jury's voice,
Now hangs upon the gallows-tree, while liars dance and knaves rejoice.
The scaffold built for thieves of old is now for patriots who grieve,
And treason wears the ermine cloak that honest judgment must now leave.
Yet still the forge of Briton burns, beneath the ash, the ember glows,
A reckoning not writ in laws, but one the heart of freemen knows.
When law forgets the common soul, and guilt is dressed in high attire,
The people rouse, though late they wake, with judgment born of older fire.
So mark it well, ye kings in grey, who sell the land for fleeting gold,
The storm once loosed shall not be stalled, nor liberties so cheaply sold.
For justice lives beyond your reach, in memory’s breath and martyr's cry,
And when it comes, it shall not ask, but judge you where your idols lie.
(By John Shenton)