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The Ballad Of Rishi

The Story Of The Expectations And Experiences Of A British Prime Minister

 

Press PLAY Above The Follow Along Below

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Rishi rose with a glimmering plan,
Dreaming he’d be Britain’s man.
Smiling bright with polished charm,
He thought he’d bring the land no harm.

But once he reached that golden chair,
He found the truth was lurking there.
The PM’s crown, though shining new,
Belonged not to him—but to ‘TheFew’🦎🦎

Whispers came from hidden halls,
Echoed deep through marble walls.
Tony Blair, the phantom hand,
Guiding power across the land.

For promises of endless gold,
And influence both fierce and bold,
He bowed before the secret gate,
Where lizards 🦎laugh🦎 and seal your fate.

Poor Dippy-Rishi, blind to scheme,
Lost inside another’s dream.
He danced to Blair’s commanding tone,
A puppet on a gilded throne.

He played along, he wore the grin,
Obeyed the scripts they’d written in.
But when the call grew far too grim,
His wife said, “No way, not for him!”

So Rishi schemed a sly escape,
To dodge the claws, to shift the shape.
He called election—smiling wide—
And let the poison pass aside.

For promises of endless gold,
And influence both fierce and bold,
He bowed before the secret gate,
Where lizards laugh and seal your fate.

To Starmer’s grasp the chalice fell,
A gift disguised—a curse from hell.
And Rishi ran without delay,
To hide where shadows fade away.

Now safe among  The Hills that Run,
Counting zeros one by one.
He sleeps in wealth, secure, alive,
Financial growth that will survive.

For promises of endless gold,
And influence both fierce and bold,
He bowed before the secret gate,
Where lizards laugh and seal your fate.

He served ‘TheFew’ 🦎🦎 He played his part,
He sold his will, he saved his heart.
And while they rule from out of view,
They still control both *Me* and *You*.

Copyright © Peter Moring  2025

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Rishi, TheFew – And the Poisoned Chalice of Power

When Rishi Sunak first stepped into Number 10, you could almost see the sparkle in his eye — the quiet conviction that *he* was going to be *The Man.* The one who’d steady the ship, fix the mess, and leave his mark in the history books. But what Rishi soon discovered — as so many before him have — is that the Prime Minister’s chair isn’t the throne of power it appears to be. It’s a gilded seat built on someone else’s foundation: *TheFew*🦎🦎 who truly pull the strings.

The British establishment has long had its unseen architects — the ones who shape policy, nudge decisions, and whisper the “acceptable” limits of leadership. According to many, Tony Blair is still one of those architects. Since leaving office, Blair has built a network of influence so vast and so subtle that even world leaders have been known to seek his counsel. And what’s the trade-off? Unlimited wealth, global prestige, and a lifetime invitation to the tables where real power dines.

Sunak, or “Dippy-Rishi” as his critics mockingly call him, might have believed he was there to make change. But soon enough, he learned that change isn’t what *The Few* want. They want continuity. They want compliance. And above all, they want control.

Rishi rolled along with the grand design for a while, taking the briefings, repeating the lines, signing off the deals — until the day came when he was asked to cross a line he simply couldn’t. That was the same line Keir Starmer now marches over without hesitation. When Sunak’s wife — known for her own sharp instincts — caught wind of what he was being asked to do, she reportedly said, *“No way, José.”*

And that’s when the game changed.

Rishi made his move not with defiance, but with calculation. He called the election early — knowing full well he would lose. To the untrained eye, it looked like a blunder. But in the darker corners of Westminster, many knew exactly what it meant: the passing of a *poisoned chalice.* Starmer would inherit the mess, the mandates, and the machine. Rishi, meanwhile, could step back into the shadows with no direct blame and no real consequences.

For his loyalty and cooperation, he earned what might be called *financial geometric progression* — the kind of secure, ever-growing wealth that only obedience to *TheFew*🦎🦎 can buy.

Now, while the country debates policy promises and partisan sound bites, the real power hums quietly in the background, unchanged. Rishi’s chapter has closed, Starmer’s has begun, and the same unseen hands continue to write the story.

Whether you call them “TheFew” 🦎🦎 “The Blair Network,” Or something darker still, the truth remains: ‘They’ control more than we care to admit — perhaps even *Me! and *You!

 

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The Demise Of The UK Charity Shops

Charity Shops Going Out Of Business – Charity Shops Closing – Because Of Charity Shops Greed?

 

Please Click Play Above & Follow Along Below

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The Demise Of The UK Charity Shop

People are miffed, and rightly so,
At shops that tell them, “Thanks, but no!”
Their gifts, once loved, now deemed too plain,
“Not up to standard,” they explain.

The larger chains, with lofty air,
Decide what’s “worthy” with a stare.
Once humble hearts with noble aim,
Now chase the shine of profit’s flame.

They scroll through eBay late at night,
And Facebook deals that gleam so bright.
They think, “We’ll match those prices too,
We’re just as grand, as sharp, as new!”

But here’s the truth they fail to see—
Their charm was thrift, not luxury.
For shoppers came with coin and heart,
To give and play a giving part.

They bought to stock those stalls anew,
And fund the cause the shops once knew.
But now the shelves are tagged too high,
And kindness fades, though few ask why.

They’ve shot themselves, both foot and name,
In chasing wealth, they’ve lost their aim.
The charity’s become a store,
That helps the needy—nevermore.

For greed, that sly and smiling sin,
Has crept inside and settled in.
The simple joy of give and take,
Now lost beneath the price they make.

Perhaps one day they’ll see their flaw,
And trade their greed for kinder law.
But if they fall, as pride may do,
The blame, dear friends, is theirs—not you.

So let them learn, if learn they might,
That charity should shine with light.
Not measured coins, but open hand—
That’s how good hearts can truly stand.

Copyright © Peter Moring  2025

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People are SO MIFFED! At being told by MOST! Of the Larger (More Important! Obviously) Charity Shops that their contributions “Don’t Meet Our Quality Standards” … WELL! They Watch Facebook Market-place & eBay Sales FAR TOO OFTEN! For their own GOOD! … They’ve UPPED Their Prices thinking that THEY are competing against those market-places … They Aren’t! .. People BUY at charity shops to not only STOCK! those market Places, but to AID The Charity selling them – Therefore – Shooting Themselves! and Their Charity – Right In The FOOT! – Maybe They Deserve! To Go Broke? – Isn’t GREED One of ‘The Seven Deadly Sins’ ??

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The Death-Knell For UK Family-Life

 

Please Click PLAY Above And Follow Along Below

For every house turned “serviced stay,”
A home for someone fades away.
One key exchanged for profit’s gleam,
One family lost their living dream.

Where laughter rang, now curtains fall,
Cold silence whispers through the hall.
Each polished suite, each weekend let,
Breeds sorrow, debt, and deep regret.

They’re buying homes, they’re buying streets,
Where once were children’s dusty feet.
From hotel chains to humble doors,
Their greedy fingers clutch for more.

Serco’s web is wide and deep,
They profit while the poor folk weep.
Landlords tempted by their gold,
Evict the hearts their walls once hold.

Five-year deals and seven-year lies,
Refurbished homes, a nation’s cries.
Contracts signed in hidden rooms,
While cities fill with silent tombs.

Where laughter rang, now curtains fall,
Cold silence whispers through the hall.
Each polished suite, each weekend let,
Breeds sorrow, debt, and deep regret.

“British? Back o’ the queue,” they sneer,
As tents like mushrooms now appear.
Office blocks and towered cells,
Become the place where struggle dwells.

Families once so full of grace,
Now fight to keep a resting place.
The working poor, the zero-paid,
By profit’s knife are cut and flayed.

Serviced homes for those who can,
But none for child or working man.
The rent’s too high, the wage too small,
The ladder’s gone, they watch it fall.

Where laughter rang, now curtains fall,
Cold silence whispers through the hall.
Each polished suite, each weekend let,
Breeds sorrow, debt, and deep regret.

Developers smile with practiced charm,
While nations crumble, arm by arm.
They justify but can’t excuse,
The human cost, the soul they bruise.

And as they trade our roofs for gold,
The heart of home grows weak, grows cold.
Yet truth will rise, and voices flame—
To halt this theft in housing’s name.

Copyright © Peter Moring  2025

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Please Click The Image Below To Learn HOW Serviced Accommodation Has Become The ‘Cancer’ That Is Seeing The ‘Organised Destruction’ Of Family Life Internationally.

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The UK Streets With No Shame

“*The UK Streets With No Shame* is a haunting social commentary song about community, courage, and the loss of compassion on Britain’s modern streets.”

 

 

I walk through the night where the cold winds call,
Where curtains twitch and the brave hearts fall.
On streets where fear has carved its name,
We live in silence — the streets of shame.

The young ones sneer with a lawless grin,
Their laughter drowns the truth within.
While decent souls just hide away,
Afraid to speak, afraid to stay.

Oh, these streets with no shame,
Where the good hearts break and the wicked reign.
We’re losing faith, we’re losing name,
In the darkness of the streets of shame.

The coppers chase through the flashing light,
Through quiet towns in the dead of night.
But not for tears, or broken doors,
Just games and speed and TV scores.

One mother painted her pain in white,
“Love thy neighbour” her holy fight.
“Jesus loves you” her heart proclaimed,
But *she* was fined — the world’s deranged.

Oh, these streets with no shame,
Where the kind are mocked and the cruel remain.
We used to stand, now we hang our heads,
In the echo of the words unsaid.

Maybe we need an Equaliser’s hand,
To walk the night and cleanse the land.
To strike the fear in hearts of flame,
And heal these broken streets of shame.

For fire meets fire when reason dies,
When truth is drowned by polished lies.
The leaders talk, but none will claim,
The wreckage of our streets of shame.

Oh, these streets with no shame,
Where the love is lost, and the guilt’s the same.
Still we light our lamps in hope’s small flame,
To guide us through these streets of shame.

To guide us through — these streets of shame.
To guide us through — these streets of shame.

 

Copyright © Peter Moring  2025

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Having just watched yet another TV programme highlighting our ‘UK Streets of Shame’ I really do wonder what happened to common sense and dignity in our communities. We are talking about rogue/feral families who live in communities and literally ‘terrorise’ vulnerable individuals or families to the point of despair, with the police and the authorities passing the buck between themselves for years while it goes on in full view of all the equally terrified neighbours who ‘know’ for a fact that if they try to stand up for the victims, that they’ll be next on the list.

Apparently, one mum decided to board up her windows and spray the words “Love thy neighbour” and “Jesus loves you” on the boards. The authorities took no time at all in taking her to court and getting her fined while the feral yobs reigned supreme sticking their fingers up to all and sundry.

We’re all now very familiar with the ‘glut’ of TV reality shows trying to endear us all to the very tough cops we now have on our ‘streets of shame’. The only problem is, the only thing they’re interested in is playing cops and robbers in their cars, chasing drivers at ridiculously high speeds through residential areas causing damage, mayhem and mortal danger to everyone who just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Usually because a car’s not insured, MOT’d, or the driver has no licence. None of these offences come anywhere NEAR the magnitude of the social destruction being caused by the feral families.

But of course, it’s not so exciting a job is it. It doesn’t make for good telly, the police chasing yobs who can always out-run and out-smart them. Maybe it’s time the UK Government introduced an ‘Equaliser Force’ who, like the TV hero Edward Woodward played many years ago, could go out in the dead of night and put ‘The fear of God’ up these social bullies. Preferably with a bit of necessary ‘persuasion’ as well.

Fighting fire with fire, works very well in nature. There’s no reason why it wouldn’t work just as well on our troubled ‘Streets of Shame’. At one time, communities looked out for each other, but thanks to successive Government ineptness, our communities have been broken down to the point where we’re all suspicious of one another and rarely talk, let alone stand up for our neighbours.

A Common sense Government would introduce an ‘Equaliser Force’ to sort this frustrating problem out. But when did politics have any association with ‘Common Sense’?

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A Chinese Dynasty Built On GOLD

Please Click PLAY above & Follow Below.

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The Power of Gold ??

From the rivers of Lydia, bright metal was born,
A sun trapped in earth, a god’s breath reborn.
Pharaohs were wrapped in its glittering hue,
They thought it eternal — but empires withdrew.

Oh, gold — you gleam, you gleam through time,
Crowned in glory, drowned in crime.
Kings rise to kiss you, then crumble to dust,
For every empire built on gold, turns to rust.

Rome paved its triumphs with hammered delight,
But barbarians came in the dark of the night.
The Aztec and Inca heard thunder from ships,
Gold for their blood — on conquistador’s lips.

Venice, Britannia, the dollar’s bright glow,
Each held your promise — each watched it go.
From temples to banks, from vaults to the skies,
Gold never dies — but belief, it dies.

Oh, gold — you gleam, you gleam through time,
Crowned in glory, drowned in crime.
Kings rise to kiss you, then crumble to dust,
For every empire built on gold, turns to rust.

Now dragon banners rise in the East,
AI for prophets, data for priests.
They hoard your weight while the West looks away,
A silent new empire is being born today.

Circuits and bullion — the code and the coin,
History whispers, *“Their fates shall join.”*
For gold is a mirror that blinds the wise,
And AI is the hand that closes the eyes.

Oh, gold — still gleam, still gleam through time,
From Babel’s stones to the blockchain line.
You’ve crowned the proud, and betrayed their trust,
For every empire built on gold — turns to dust.

So let them build with silicon dreams,
And bind the world in golden schemes.
But the stars care not for empire or throne —
Gold melts. Time wins. All empires are bone.

{Copyright © Peter Moring  2025}

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The Power of Gold: Empires, Illusions, and the New Digital Throne

 

For as long as humanity has dreamt of power, one element has cast its glow across every age — gold. From the tombs of pharaohs to the vaults of Wall Street, gold has been the ultimate symbol of wealth, permanence, and divine authority. It is beautiful, incorruptible, and — ironically — corrupting.

The poem “The Power of Gold”  explores this paradox through history’s echo chamber, tracing the rise and fall of empires that once believed gold could secure their immortality. It begins in ancient Lydia, where the first coins were minted, before passing through Egypt’s golden gods, Rome’s spoils, and the blood-stained treasures of the New World. Each stanza is a reflection of the same tragic truth: that empires mistake gold’s glitter for greatness, forgetting that the metal endures — but the hands that hold it do not.

Gold’s magic lies in illusion. It does not rust, it does not fade, and so it whispers of eternity. Yet every empire that sought to rule through it eventually collapsed. Rome was sacked. – Spain squandered its Incan plunder. – Britain’s golden sovereign gave way to the dollar. – And even the American empire — underpinned by “paper gold” and fiat faith — now finds itself trembling before a new kind of power.

That new force rises in the East. China, long patient in its strategy, is quietly amassing gold reserves while advancing an entirely different form of supremacy: technological and algorithmic control. In an age where data flows more freely than bullion, Beijing’s combination of physical wealth and digital intelligence forms the foundation of a modern empire.

The poem’s bridge warns of this fusion:

“Circuits and bullion — the code and the coin,
History whispers, ‘Their fates shall join.’ ”

It is a chilling prophecy. Gold once powered divine right and colonial conquest; now, artificial intelligence fuels digital dominion. One glitters in vaults, the other hums in servers. Both promise control over human destiny.

Yet, as the poem concludes, the same fate awaits all who worship these false suns/Idols:

“Gold melts. Time wins. All empires are bone.”

No matter how advanced our algorithms or how deep our reserves, the pattern remains unchanged. Civilizations fall not from lack of resources, but from moral erosion and over-reliance on their own illusions of permanence.

Gold, like power, is a mirror — and what we see in it depends on what we are. The empires of the past saw divinity and conquest. The empire of today sees data and dominance. But beneath the digital sheen, the same ancient hunger endures.

The lesson of “The Power of Gold” is clear: Every age believes it has mastered permanence, yet every age becomes a cautionary tale.

Gold endures, but empire never does.

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Control Through Consequences

Control Through Fear! – In A Modern Society

“A Poetic Reflection On Hidden State Powers”

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Consequences …

Through centuries of fear we’ve grown,
A leash of rules to guide, to own.
Civilization, they softly claim,
A shield of order, a noble name.

No pillage, no rampant fire,
No lust, no theft, no savage desire.
A world of morals we’re told to keep,
Or consequences rise from deep.

Yet behind the curtain, shadows steer,
The Few who whisper, bend, coerce,
Their end game waits, control complete,
Where freedom bends beneath their feet.

We’re shaped as drones, our hours sold,
Our spirit drained, our fire cold.
They harvest energy, thought, and breath,
And bind our will in chains of flesh.

Each rule imposed, each petty line,
Dulls the spark that once was mine.
We’re fed illusions, endless streams,
False foes designed within our dreams.

The films, the games, the flashing screen,
A theatre vast, yet never clean.
Billboards shout, the ads confide,
All to keep us pacified.

Sweeteners gifted, toys of light,
To veil the darkness of their night.
Like children set with games to play,
While parents turn their eyes away.

Big Brother’s house, a cage of glass,
Where baited souls perform and pass.
We cheer, we laugh, we take the test,
Yet miss the chains upon our chest.

The net, their web, both trap and key,
A mirror vast of you and me.
And all the while, the lesson clear:
Consequences—control through fear.

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Catch Ya Later …….

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Copyright © Ven Bunce  2025

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Did SATAN Fund Only-Fans

“The Devil’s Whisper: A Poem on Lust, Technology, and the Fall of Love”

A dark poetic reflection on lust, technology, and the devil’s subtle plan to unravel love, family, and society from within.

Please Press Play Above And Follow Along With The Poem Below.

 

I whispered soft in mortal ears, a sly, seductive plan,
To twist the ways of love and birth, and slowly cull out Man.
Not poison’s cup, nor bombs in flight, would serve this wicked art,
But subtler snares of lust and fame would play the greater part.

The youth grow wise to war’s old game, they question every fight,
So I must weave a clever net, concealed beneath the night.
I tried to blur the lines of flesh, with tricks of form and name,
But fleeting was that masquerade—it fizzled into shame.

I’ve long abused both love and lust to get things as I please,
Since Seventies’ sweet, swirling days, I’ve brought you to your knees.
Why fix what’s never broken down, why mend a perfect snare?
I’ll twist the bond of hearts and vows, till none are left to care.

I’ll make your unions sour and cold, your partnerships a chore,
So breeding halts not by decree, but choice you can’t ignore.
Then came the net, my gift to you, and social scrolls divine,
I mixed the two, a wicked brew, a trap by my design.

A stage was built where youth could sell their charms to eager eyes,
“OnlyFans,” I whispered sweet, “where dreams and dollars rise!”
And millions came, with painted lips, to dance before the screen,
Their beauty turned to currency, their virtue wiped clean.

And men—oh men!—what will they shun, when choosing for a bride?
A “loose” delight, a fleeting night—they’ll turn and step aside.
Thus love decays, the cradle’s cold, the birth rate starts to fall,
While I, in shadows, laugh and watch the ruin of it all.

You handed me the keys yourselves, to lock away your fate,
With lust as bait, you sealed the door, your end you helped create.
No battles raged, no poison spread, just hunger and a screen,
The oldest trade reborn anew—oh, devilishly keen.

So when you pose, or when you pay, to sate your fleeting flame,
Remember who first lit the match, who whispered you the game.
It’s I—yes, Satan—grinning wide, as mankind slowly wanes,
For pleasure bought with empty hearts will shatter all your chains.

SO! – Did ‘I’ Fund ‘Only Fans’?

 

Did I fund ‘Only Fans’? Well I certainly put the idea into the head of one of my many disciples.
You see, I needed to slow down the birth rate of Humanity, so that over the long term, only the Evil Humans would be left on Earth. Then all I had to do was ‘light the flame’ and They would simply ‘increase’ the number of their Own kind than they do right NOW!

SO! How do I manage this without Poison or even More! Wars! Because the younger Generations are getting ‘Sussed’ on the purpose of wars and could shut them down completely by the time the next generation become young adults. So what’s to be done?

I tried the Trans, biological sex trick, but that didn’t last too long, I was found wanting fairly quickly on that one, so I had to think HARD yet again. Now I know you’ve read about how I like to abuse Sex and Love to get My own way, and it’s been super-successful since the 1970’s. So why not use it Yet again? After all, why FIX what ain’t BROKE! EH?

That’s when I realised the safest way to get RID of all you ‘Good people’ out there is to stunt your birth-rate – Permanently! – What better way than to make marriage or partnerships SO distasteful that You would all just voluntarily STOP! Breeding? … Excellent Plan – I’m sure You’ll all agree.

Now previously I told You how I gave You the internet and My Saviour – ‘Social Media’ – So I thought I’d combine the two to give you the perfect ‘divider’ – ‘Only Fans’ .. Where mainly young Girls/Ladies could go and earn some REAL MONEY to fund the Lifestyle-Of-Their-DREAMS! – And SO They Did! – Millions of them 🙂 🙂 🙂

And What! Do the Blokes/Lads/Fella’s NEVER want to marry, or form a lasting relationship with? – Yep! – ‘A Loose Woman’ … So You See! SEX! Does it AGAIN! It’s just SO! Predictable and Easy! You good folk just handed Me the keys to Oblivion – My Natural Habitat! – Where I shall go and Live – Forever More! – After Your Birth Rates have become unsustainable on the back of one of the Simplest Ideas Ever – The Glorified ‘Oldest Trade’ in the book – And all of You Frustrated, sex-hungry blokes are PAYING to rid Yourself! – Of Yourselves.

When You next Preen & Pose for ‘Only Fans’
Or you Login to get Your Daily/Hourly FIX!
Think Of ME! SATAN!! … Love Ya Baby 🙂 🙂 🙂

Copyright © Peter Moring  2025

SEE! .. ‘If I Were SATAN’ .. Here! ..

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The Whispers Of The Dark Angels

Please Press Play Above And Follow Along With The Poem Below.

Angels are painted in colors so bright,
Wings made of wonder, of beauty, of light.
But shadows are cast where the dark angels tread,
Harbingers walking the halls of the dead.

Not robed in gold, nor faces fair,
But cloaked in darkness, cold as the air.
Symbols of midnight, of sorrow and gloom,
They enter unbidden, they visit the room.

Skeleton figures with eyes like coal,
Summoning silence, reclaiming the soul.
No friendly embrace, no gentle cheer,
Their presence brings shivers, whispers of fear.

The “Grim Reaper” name is often bestowed,
On angels of death where shadows have flowed.
Cultures may differ, beliefs are not one,
Some fear their coming, some say it’s begun.

For some it’s transition, a step that’s required,
For others, a terror profoundly inspired.
For death is the end that all must face,
No status or fortune can alter that place.

We fear what we lose, the love torn away,
When angels of death bring night from the day.
Unready to part, we cry and we plead,
Feeling time stolen by their ghostly speed.

Yet comfort may dwell in their solemn embrace,
When illness has wearied a once-smiling face.
For then these dark angels are said to ascend,
To carry the spirit where sufferings end.

With wisdom and age comes a quiet accord,
A sense that their presence might offer reward.
In art and in stories, in games and in lore,
Their figures emerge through eternity’s door.

On screens they are demons who drag souls away,
In blackness and horror, in shadows they stay.
But whether as terror or solace they gleam,
Death angels still walk through humanity’s dream.

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Find Out MORE! About ‘The Dark Angels’  >> Here!

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The Fabian Society Objective View

 

Press Play Above And Follow Along With The The words Below

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In eighteen eighty-four, a vision was born,
A gentle flame in socialism’s dawn.
The Fabian Society, steady, not fast,
Believed in change that would last and last.

Not through revolt, not sudden might,
But gradual progress, steady and right.
A think-tank formed with pen and mind,
Seeking reforms for all mankind.

They write and publish, advise and train,
Through reports, debates, their ideas gain.
Health and education, work and skill,
Policy shaped by reason and will.

Linked to Labour, yet not the state,
Their influence comes through intellect, not fate.
Ministers, MPs, some in their fold,
Carry their ideas, gentle yet bold.

Events and seminars, networks grown,
Young Fabians learning seeds once sown.
A whisper of guidance, a shaping hand,
Ideas ripple through the land.

They do not govern, do not command,
No secret cabal rules the strand.
Power resides in votes and law,
Not in think-tank halls or what they draw.

Yet myths arise of hidden might,
Of shadows steering day and night.
History fuels such tales untamed,
Because their influence is widely framed.

But influence is not the same as reign,
It’s thought, not force, that spreads their gain.
Ideas take root, some ministers see,
How Fabian vision may help set policy free.

So subtle yet real, their role unfolds,
Through intellect’s touch, not iron holds.
A society old, still shaping debate,
Not running Britain, but helping create.

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Catch Ya Later ….

This is the ‘Official’ Objective View – Make of it what You will.

With ‘Hope Not Hate’ Influencing  the Curriculum in the UK Education Systems
… AKA; ‘Woke Indoctrination Hubs’
…. The Future Of Great Britain is now looking very bleak!

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Copyright © Ven Bunce  2025

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The Few ….

Press Play Above And Follow Along With The The words Below

 

The Few conspire in shadows deep,
With whispered vows they vow to keep.
Their schemes are hidden, sharp, refined,
To fracture families, hearts, and minds.

Divide and conquer—ancient art,
To prize the world and tear apart.
They’ve gained a tool, both vast and strange,
A DNA Bank to rearrange.

With codes of blood, the secrets lie,
Of lineage traced, of truth or lie.
A costly search, yet some will pay,
For proof to show, for love’s decay.

A child may seek the father’s name,
To test the bond, to shift the blame.
Yet fatherhood is more than seed,
It blooms in care, in daily deed.

A cruel show once, on TV aired,
Where human pain was cheaply shared.
A banker smiled while families broke,
Each test a lash, each word a yoke.

And spiteful youth, with money near,
May buy the truths they should not hear.
A parent shamed, a home undone,
A war within, that few have won.

But worse, the rogues with hearts of coal,
Could blackmail life, could damn the soul.
A secret loosed, a weapon made,
A trust betrayed, a love decayed.

TheFew will dress this gift as kind,
A cure for sickness, peace of mind.
They claim it heals, they claim it saves,
Yet dig instead a field of graves.

For who can guard the strands we keep,
When Few awake and rest still sleep?
Their baby steps, their creeping plan,
To bind the beast, to cage the clan.

So question what they sell as sweet,
Beware the prize that tastes of deceit.
For none so blind as those who say,
The Few are gone, or lost their way.

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Catch Ya Later ….

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Copyright © Ven Bunce  2025

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