"Bah humbug, Christmas time is here.
The peasants will want heating, feeding,
refuge and cheer."
He looks out over the streets, slush covered with grey streaks.
Sneers at the faces that greet.
Just the bleak midwinter does he see.
His solitude is interrupted. A corrupted image
A blended figure of past ministers laden in chains.
maggots writhing over the remnants of brains.
"Ooooohhh on this eve, you will see the errors of your ways,
for if you don't you will be in your final days,
visited will thee be, by ghosts 1, 2 and 3.
On this silent yuletide night, try not to run from your fright."
"Poppycock, ghosts don't exist." The prime minister insists.
as the figure vanishes, fading into the moonlit mist.
A frigid cold blows through the old office space,
A sneer emerges on his face as the bell chimes one.
A figure emerges from the gloom
face without eyes, nor skin where bone lies,
a withered wretched thing
"I am the ghost of many moons ago
I am to show you a thing or two.
So come, be guided by my hand,
as we traipse across this tarnished soiled land.
We will explore. Where we were
when you were still young and had it all to live for."
He looks upon the sight, a silent Christmas night,
but there are smiles. Atmosphere.
Stolen glances as love is in the air.
He can feel care. That feeling so rare.
He had forgotten the way it feels,
like a warm gust of air.
He had it all, every doorway he ever could need,
but he held a handful of greed
and it wasn’t enough.
"I bid thee farewell and safe travels,
for you will travail many miles this night"
And like a smile on the face of a lonely cloud,
he fades into the dusty light.
At the chime of two, a terrifying echo screamed through.
"I am the ghost of that which is. I shall show you things. Sit. Pull up a pew."
The TV flickered into view.
Showing news of homeless freezing, hateful voices raised,
parliament degraded. Endless blood and pain.
Then around him the missiles rained.
Flames and the scent of burnt human remains.
The room shook, onto the floor fell his ledger book
with every dodgy deal exposed, coated in red,
for every life his weapons took.
"Ahh the weapons you so kindly sent,
the death bringing rains, you now lament?
Do you repent?"
And with that he faded into the night.
At the strike of three, he opened his eyes to see
a wretched figure, something familiar
about this image it seems.
"I am the ghost of that which is to come, think of it all like a bad dream"
And the room turns to a courtroom scene.
Newspaper covered in blotchy print.
His face plastered with the headline, war criminal.
Let it sink in.
The room shifted to a funeral scene,
some old politicians and a baying crowd
screaming and shouting loud.
Headstone inscribed with his name.
A tear falls from his eye
As the figure flickers out of view,
like a streetlight giving up the ghost
The next morning.
We have breaking news...
The prime minister
has called a shock general election,
there is mass confusion, but much elation.
He has said as of now no weapons
will be sent to war hungry nations.
Instead, we need to talk,
to mend our relations.
Thanks for reading
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