A gracious hand waving at a window. Diamonds sparkling as a limousine passes by. Black suits freshly pressed. Haute Couture dresses finely displayed in the bright sunlight. Power radiates forth, confidence is all-consuming. Friendship openly displayed by all.
The smoke swirls around the buildings. Ambulances rushing by. Women wailing from despair and loss. Emotion pouring forth. Blood on the streets as broken bodies lay around. Death and destruction in a foreign land. It is not here, it is not us.
No money wails the Chancellor. Get rid of all the waste. Too many bureaucrats, how many pen pushers, form fillers and bean counters. Close the Coastguard Stations. Reduce our Armed forces. Cut the Police Force. But the Civil Servants in Whitehall keep their jobs and pensions.
We haven’t got any money the Defence Secretary moans, the budget has been cut. As he order some nuclear submarines. we have got to get rid of servicemen and women to save money, but two new aircraft carriers we can afford. I wonder who will man them.
A new French person to run the IMF. Perhaps this one will not lose her trousers. Being a woman she can only become a victim. No blame can attach to her for all the errors caused by men. Always a European but never from Britain.
A motorcycle lies wrecked. An explosion swiftly delivered by a martyr on their way to heaven. Blood and bodies, but it’s just another foreign land. Turbans scattered on the floor. Is this what they mean about fighting in an Alien land, but we don’t care it’s not us.
Death and destruction reach out from the sky. Storm clouds gather in great umbrella’s over the flatlands. The storms are so immense, nothing to break-up natures power. No Mountains or hills to stop this march across the plains only people and buildings lie in their way only death do they leave behind.