Dinosaur Hunter

They call me a communist soldier,
They call me Marxist whore,
The tick-tock, click track drumbeat,
Of invasion, famine and war.

I'm a dazzle-hued Molotov Cocktail,
Acting on foreign direction,
And I hide in the sky in the leaking high-rise,
As a focus for insurrection.

I'm the red in the bed of your husband,
A honey trap, up to no good,
Ringed with the scent of fast-food oil,
A destroyer of nationhood.

I'm the threat of a dubious future,
A stooge of the NKVD,
An agent for change and destruction,
A stain on the land of the free.

I'm a shill for the end of Old England,
A biblical plague reinvented,
A feminist thinker, libertarian hag,
A dangerous statist demented.

I'm all for the revision of history,
The retelling of colonial lies,
I'll make you forget the old battles,
Turn heroes to men to despise.

Self-loathing and bound for extinction,
I'm a compromised relic of labour,
For the future's resistant to change and decay,
With a hatred of love and your neighbour.

I don't see me in all of this garbage,
I'm the complaint of the sad and the old,
Though I'm approaching the end of my own life,
And can see the decay and the cold.

It's a false rhyme that spooks the old soldier,
The gooks in the shadows of night,
With drugs to turn you to zombie and spin,
To straw men and dimmers of light.

And their old England never existed,
Apart from the pain and starvation,
Bouncing along the last zero line,
Through boom-bust and angry inflation.