No, I shall not die for the fluttering flag,

if truth be known, ‘tis nothing but a multi-coloured rag

held aloft by some foolish hand

inciting worker and peasant to kill

on some green and wooded hill,

peasant and worker from some other land.

Nor shall I shed blood for the fluttering rag

that brings out fools to stand and brag

of brutal deeds painted grand,

deeds where rustic and craftsman lie so still

killed by my brothers’ misguided hand.

No allegiance have I for the Nation

this man made autocratic creation

that divides my brothers in a world so small,

binds us to a country’s cause, right or wrong,

bids us follow its drum, sing its song,

then sheds our blood in some border brawl.

No, I’ll be no slave to flag or nation,

have no ear for power oration,

though its iron heel is on my breast,

my back feels its leather thong,

at patriotism’s barracoon, I’ll be no guest.



We are at present working on poetry from the collection and we will endeavour to get as much as possible up in the coming weeks, but since you arrived here we thought we would give you something to read.

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