They sit in their towers of parchment and power, with quills that decree what is true,
They scribble out words that offend their great ears, and silence the voices they rue.
Not kings, nor the priests, nor the mobs of the past have ever so ruled with a pen,
Yet here in the lands that once honoured free speech, the word is enslaved once again.
They prattle of dangers, of risks undefined, of threats to the public debate,
And thus, with a flourish of bureaucrat’s hand, they tighten the locks on the gate.
For who shall decide what is reckless or wise? What notions may flourish or rot?
The judges in Brussels, with brows lined in silk, who censor with fines they allot.
But harken! Beyond the grey castles of law, a tempest is brewing anew,
For those who recall how the tyrants of old once cloaked their decrees in virtue.
They burned all the books, they silenced the fools, they jailed the irreverent men,
Yet history shows that the words they once feared came roaring back stronger again.
So speak while you may, though the masters may frown, though warnings and whispers may spread,
For freedom’s a flame that no edict can douse, though thousands may think it long dead.
Let Brussels make rules, let judges proclaim, let fines rain like arrows of lead,
But still shall the voices of liberty rise, long after their paper is shred.
(By John Shenton)