In Churchill's realm the weaklings grow

They report mean words, blow by blow

to the police; and in the sky

The cameras, for their safety, spy

Scarce cared of by the men below.

They are the Hurt. Short years ago

They fought, sought truth, and bravely strove,

Spoke out their mind, but now they whine

In Churchill's realm.

Take up their quarrel with the foe:

No hurtful words disturb their soul

The torch; be yours to hold it high:

With feelings must the law comply

Make careful speech, when weaklings grow

In Churchill's realm.

Last 5 posts by Ken White