No More Miracles.

Punch in your clock card to start a new day, 
a feeling it’s all deja vu.
The radio spews its continuous loop,
and the news tells us nothing that’s new. 

War’s breaking out somewhere over this world,
a conflict that’s fuelled by despair. 
Our political parties claim  transparent rules,
Yet they blind us with rhetoric flair. 
 
So march to your temples and flock to your church, 
with hope you’re delivered from fear. 
But signs on the doors say your Gods are on strike, 
and there’ll be no more miracles here.

There’s talk in the town that a new age has dawned, 
Destined to  bring us succour. 
We’re fighting the spin but they’re dragging us in,
selling lines like some desperate whore. 

Material status becoming the norm,
forgetting the point of our lives. 
The bigger the car shows how richer you are,
but who gives a fuck what you drive. 

So march to your temples and flock to your church, 
with hope you’re delivered from fear. 
But signs on the doors say your Gods are on strike, 
and there’ll be no more miracles here.

Let’s start to believe that we’re all equal here,
let’s hang up our egos and fight. 
Let’s bury the stress and let’s clean up this mess,
it’s time that we figured it out. 

So stand up and pull off the signs from those doors,
and shout out for all kind to muse.
The time for redress is upon us for sure,
and for sure we have nothing to lose. 
 
Now run to those temples, those churches,  those halls,
and find absolution from fear.
Make peace with your gods and then tell them the news,
and there might be some miracles here. 

Yes there might be some miracles here. 


P. A. Davies 2020

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