We live in an age of quiet,
Told by everything surrounding us,
That we are being ourselves too loudly,
When these people have seen worse-
and should know better,

What seems to them a fledgling revolution,
Is merely a bubbling rebellion,
Which may not burst forth yet-
not for quite some time,
As we are told - "Don't do it that way;
you'll never make a dime",
By the self-proclaimed time-travellers,
Who cannot grasp the nature of rebellion,
Despite having lived through it-
and despite being swaddled in it,

Now it seems we are socialised too well,
To believe violence at all worth the ends,
Desperate to fight but unable to conquer,
Self-arresting anxieties of global judgement,
Now that globalisation has killed revolution,
Or violent revolution; at least here in our kingdom-
Of glorious westernisation,

We no longer possess power of solitude,
Cannot mind our own business for long,
Swift intervention is all too inevitable,
Submit then we must to the throngs,
Of political power-
of fear of reprisal,
And wait in the wings and remain,
Little by little, circle by circle,
Revolve with minutiae of change,

But perhaps after all there'll be riots,
And perhaps when it boils there'll be blood,
For to bewilder the skeptics-
we'll march through the fire,
No more shall we toil in the mud,

So call it regressive, uncivil and fickle,
Remind us again you know best,
Hope that your caution sees us beat a retreat,
That what will pass is removed from the rest,

A final reminder it's happened before,
Then the circle is still incomplete,
So we'll bend but not break-
for in our soul lays a rebel,
Whom you'll never find knelt at your feet.