The Angry Exile: Keep saying sorry, Gordon

The Hangman

Into our town the Hangman came,
Smelling of gold and blood and flame.
And he paced our bricks with a diffident air,
And built his frame in the courthouse square.
The scaffold stood by the courthouse side,
Only as wide as the door was wide;
A frame as tall, or little more,
Than the capping sill of the courthouse door.
And we wondered, whenever we had the time,
Who the criminal, what the crime
That the Hangman judged with the yellow twist
of knotted hemp in his busy fist.
And innocent though we were, with dread,
We passed those eyes of buckshot lead --
Till one cried: "Hangman, who is he
For whom you raised the gallows-tree?"
Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye,
And he gave us a riddle instead of reply:
"He who serves me best," said he,
"Shall earn the rope of the gallows-tree."
And he stepped down, and laid his hand
On a man who came from another land.
And we breathed again, for another's grief
At the Hangman's hand was our relief
And the gallows-frame on the courthouse lawn
By tomorrow's sun would be struck and gone.
So we gave him way, and no one spoke,
Out of respect for his Hangman's cloak.
The next day's sun looked mildly down
On roof and street in our quiet town,
And stark and black in the morning air
Was the gallows-tree in the courthouse square.
And the Hangman stood at his usual stand
With the yellow hemp in his busy hand;
With his buckshot eye and his jaw like a pike
And his air so knowing and business-like.
And we cried, "Hangman, have you not done
Yesterday, with the foreign one?"
Then we fell silent, and stood amazed,
"Oh, not for him was the gallows raised."
He laughed a laugh as he looked at us:
"Did you think I'd gone to all this fuss
To hang one man? That's a thing I do
To stretch a rope when the rope is new."
Then one cried "Murder!" and one cried "Shame!"
And into our midst the Hangman came
To that man's place. "Do you hold," said he,
"with him that was meant for the gallows-tree?"
And he laid his hand on that one's arm.
And we shrank back in quick alarm!
And we gave him way, and no one spoke
Out of fear of his Hangman's cloak.
That night we saw with dread surprise
The Hangman's scaffold had grown in size.
Fed by the blood beneath the chute,
The gallows-tree had taken root;
Now as wide, or a little more,
Than the steps that led to the courthouse door,
As tall as the writing, or nearly as tall,
Halfway up on the courthouse wall.
The third he took -- we had all heard tell --
Was a usurer, and an infidel.
"What," said the Hangman "have you to do
With the gallows-bound, and he a Jew?"
And we cried out, "Is this one he
Who has served you well and faithfully?"
The Hangman smiled: "It's a clever scheme
to try the strength of the gallows-beam."
The fourth man's dark, accusing song
Had scratched our comfort hard and long;
"And what concern," he gave us back.
"Have you for the doomed -- the doomed and Black?"
The fifth. The sixth. And we cried again,
"Hangman, Hangman, is this the man?"
"It's a trick," he said. "that we hangmen know
For easing the trap when the trap springs slow."
And so we ceased, and asked no more,
As the Hangman tallied his bloody score.
And sun by sun, and night by night,
The gallows grew to monstrous height.
The wings of the scaffold opened wide
Till they covered the square from side to side;
And the monster cross-beam, looking down,
Cast its shadow across the town.
Then through the town the Hangman came,
Through the empty streets, and called my name --
And I looked at the gallows soaring tall,
And thought, "There is no one left at all
For hanging, and so he calls to me
To help pull down the gallows-tree."
So I went out with right good hope
To the Hangman's tree and the Hangman's rope.
He smiled at me as I came down
To the courthouse square through the silent town.
And supple and stretched in his busy hand
Was the yellow twist of the hempen strand.
And he whistled his tune as he tried the trap,
And it sprang down with a ready snap --
And then with a smile of awful command
He laid his hand upon my hand.
"You tricked me. Hangman!," I shouted then,
"That your scaffold was built for other men...
And I no henchman of yours," I cried,
"You lied to me, Hangman. Foully lied!"
Then a twinkle grew in the buckshot eye,
"Lied to you? Tricked you?" he said. "Not I.
For I answered straight and I told you true --
The scaffold was raised for none but you.
For who has served me more faithfully
Then you with your coward's hope?" said he,
"And where are the others who might have stood
Side by your side in the common good?"
"Dead," I whispered. And amiably
"Murdered," the Hangman corrected me:
"First the foreigner, then the Jew...
I did no more than you let me do."
Beneath the beam that blocked the sky
None had stood so alone as I.
The Hangman noosed me, and no voice there
Cried "Stop!" for me in the empty square.

Maurice Ogden

Tuesday, 17 November 2009

Keep saying sorry, Gordon

From Newsarse

Brown to apologise to all children forced to grow up in the UK.

Gordon Brown is planning an apology to those children left to be raised in the UK instead of being offered the chance of living in a far nicer country, somewhere sunny.

Under the Child Migrants Programme - which ended just 40 years ago - many children were rejected and left to face a life of dreary weather, miserable citizens and truly terrible national sports teams.

59 year old Gerry Owen is one of the unfortunate children of the fifties left behind in the UK, and he told us, “I was born in 1950, and in 1959 my application to go ‘absolutely anywhere else at all’ was rejected out of hand.”

“Since then, I’ve been subjected to a miserable existence on these Isles, consisting mainly of drizzling grey monotony interspersed with abject disappointment after stunningly predictable abject disappointment.”

“It’s all the Government’s fault, and I still blame them for not sending me somewhere much, much nicer all those years ago.”

“The irony is, I’m a borderline alcoholic who genuinely loves cricket and utterly despises football, I’d have made a brilliant Australian.”

The Prime Minister is planning to formally apologise to the lost generation of approximately 20 million post-war children who have been forced to endure a life in modern Britain instead of perpetual summers, surfing and barbecues.

“We can only apologise for the mistakes of the past,” said Brown.

“I realise that due to these past human rights infringements, there are literally millions of Britons who have absolutely no idea that a dip in the sea shouldn’t always be at the risk of rapid onset hypothermia.”

“Or that a sickly pallor reminiscent of a Chernobyl victim isn’t actually a pre-existing genetic disposition, but simply a product of being left behind to grow up in Huddersfield.”

“Still, I’m sure they’ll feel much better once I’ve said sorry in this nice open letter I’ve spent the morning scribbling.”

Nice.

2 comments:

Rob Farrington said...: That 'MMMNPGH!' sound you hear is the sound of me choking on my drink.

LOL, or whatever it is the kids say these days!; 18 November 2009 at 11:37
Anonymous said...: This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.; 18 November 2009 at 22:52

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Tuesday, 17 November 2009

Keep saying sorry, Gordon

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