The golden handshake becomes a stranglehold
Trump's tiny fingers crushing Britain's windpipe
while Charles counts the carats
in his conscience, finds it lighter
than the air his subjects breathe.
September 17th, 2025, 8:37 PM
The state banquet bills itself as diplomacy
while billing taxpayers for sovereignty's fire sale,
each golden spoon excavating the grave
where Britain's backbone lies buried.
Air Force One's landing gear crushes
more than Stansted tarmac
each wheel a millstone grinding
the bones of independence
into flour for fascism's bread,
kneaded by hands that once built empires,
now reduced to begging for scraps
from their former colony's table.
The palace menu itemises empire's liquidation:
Starter: Dignity, served at room temperature
Main: Sovereignty, carved paper-thin
Dessert: Democracy, set alight tableside
Wine: The tears of Grenfell mothers,
vintage 2017, aged in courtroom delays.
Charles's crown jewels catch camera flashes
like evidence bags in a crime scene,
each diamond a witness to centuries
of systematic theft,
the ermine stained with fingerprints
that no amount of pageantry can wipe clean.
The red carpet unrolls like a wound
splitting Britain's body politic,
each thread a suture torn loose
by the weight of American boots,
the pattern spelling out surrender
in a script only cowards read fluently.
But watch—the kitchen staff vanish mid-service,
their aprons abandoned on marble floors
like shed skins of complicity,
the rebellion seasoned into every dish
now burning in the ovens,
smoke alarms screaming what the press won't print.
Ministers mint excuses faster than currency,
their faces stamped on coins of betrayal
circulating through the black market
of public trust,
each smile purchasing another day's silence
from a press corps with mortgages to pay.
The handshake seals more than a photo opportunity
two sets of small hands dividing the spoils
while the great hands that built this nation
find their pockets picked clean,
their tools sold for scrap metal
to fund another arms deal.
Crystal glasses ring like alarm bells
no one bothers to answer anymore,
each toast a funeral oration
for values buried alive,
the champagne bubbles rising like souls
abandoning a sinking ship.
The banquet hall mirrors multiply the evidence
each reflection another witness
to the same crime,
the surfaces silver-backed with the sweat
of those who polished them for minimum wage.
Outside these gilded walls,
the real Britain keeps its own ledger:
rough sleepers under railway bridges
calculating survival in degrees Celsius,
food bank volunteers doing arithmetic
that never adds up,
hands writing tomorrow's manifesto
on the margins of today's eviction notices.
Morning delivers the invoice
not in pounds sterling
but in the currency of consequence:
empty stomachs that growl like thunder,
homeless queues that stretch like fault lines,
rage compounding hourly in council estates
where promises decompose faster than hope.
The golden plates return to storage
but the debt transfers to us
principal and interest compounding
in every child who goes to bed hungry,
every family choosing between heating and eating,
every hand that still builds
despite being robbed blind,
every voice that still demands
the reckoning they've earned
through decades of systematic theft.
The ledger will balance
accounts settled in the currency of justice
they've been counterfeiting for years,
the final payment extracted
not from those who can't afford it
but from those who've been banking
on our silence,
compounding their wealth
on our compound interest
in revenge.
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