On the Westminster Bridge Massacre, 22 March 2017
When Wordsworth stood upon that bridge most fair,
And wondered if some gloomy passer-by
Could be so dim that London’s majesty
Would never touch his dullness, unaware,
The poet prophesied the world’s despair
That here beneath a once and future sky,
In Islam’s name the innocent would die
Their cries to fill the crisp and smokeless air;
That there would be no Christian left to weep
The dead whose countrymen with tears befill
The waters of the gently flowing deep.
Sad London, void of intellect and will,
That harbors in its communistic sleep
A heathen horde that relishes the kill!