The Bridge

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 Moloch’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 England, void of intellect and will,
That harbors in its communistic sleep
A godless horde that relishes the kill!

 

© Joseph Charles MacKenzie