The Hum of the Cable

When they come in the night with their lamps burning bright
To bear all the Gypsies away,
The cries burrow deep to the depths of my sleep
Of the roots being wrenched from the clay.
However much I care, it’s cold out there —
In the darkness I turn away.
When they cross all the fields with the sun on their shields,
The Baptists are easy to find.
At the point of a gun they force them to run
And they leave not a one left behind.
But the sun is bright, and at its height —
In its lightness I am blind.
When they scour the lanes and find the remains
Of the writers who peddle ideas,
With little to seize, the presses can squeeze
The word and the word disappears.
But I cannot decipher what
Is but a blot, my dears.
Out late on the street I hear on its beat
The growl of a Doberman dog.
The red of its eyes destroys my disguise
As slowly it searches the smog.
But with a howl, it finds its prey,
The blind, the sleepy turn away,
They cast adrift this useless cog
As the hum of the cable comes down through the fog.