Opposite Man

He leaves not a footprint; makes hardly a sound,
he lives in a cloud, deep underground.
His shadow is white, the moon makes him tan,
that’s why he’s referred to as ‘Opposite Man’

He’s as blind as an owl, as wise as a brush
he smiles as he whines and growls like a thrush,
darkness excites him, the sun leaves him cold,
he recalls tomorrow and what he’s not told.

His culture refined his thinking so crude,
his loyalty as blind as his attitude.
A cacophonous voice too loud to hear,
and mumbled campaigning, opaquely clear.
It goes upside in and out of my ear…
“What’s glaring is rarely all it appears.”

So he sails a leadership out of its depth,
to where rainbows of innocents burned in their beds in
a tenement where plebs were fooled to accept
after greed lies with power, a Grenfell is left.                                                    So he clad his secrets around the tower,
washed his hands, let regrets turned sour.

He launched the Windrush and made rights wrong

exiled those he once promised belonged.
Opposite man plots and conspires
behind hedges and brokers and lawyers and liars.

Those charming politicos are opposite blokes,
their sermons and speeches are as tragic, as jokes.
Rejected by me, selected by you
or obviously the obverse is true.