The streets run red where the merchants meet, their wares are in flesh and in dust,
And daggers decide what the law will not name, for barter and blade are but trust.
The sons of the crescent carve out their domain, their kingdom of shadow and vice,
While the city guard marches with parchment in hand, to silence a heretic’s voice.
Not theft, nor the slaughter of children in lanes, nor poison that spreads in the air,
But words, oh, the horror!, the cut of a tongue!, is more than the lords can bear.
For truth is a treason more deadly than steel, and thoughts are a plague on the brain,
So the scribes are unmasked as the rogues of the age, and speech is the tyrant’s domain.
Canterbury slumbers in cold iron chains, its belfries unmourned and unsung,
And the path to Jerusalem, darkened with scorn, is trampled by priests holding tongues.
For faith is a flame that offends those who rule, and wisdom is dust on the breeze,
And those who remember what once made them free are cast to the depths on their knees.
So the city guard bows to the masters above, and marches where wisdom is slain,
Ignoring the hands that exchange blood for gold, while hunting the thoughts of the sane.
A knife in the night is a trivial thing, a trade that the governors know,
But woe to the quill that defies their decree, its wielder is first to the rope.
Thus England stands quiet, her halls filled with ink, her scholars all fearing the pyre,
And those who would whisper the folly of kings are shackled, then tossed to the fire.
The villains still walk where the innocent fell, and temples stand empty and dim,
For the city guard watches, but never too close, lest they see who is guarding them.
(By John Shenton)