Helter skelter

The footpath is closed, a seclusion zone for the hikers,
The curious watch from afar, watching proceedings
With binoculars,
Eating Ham sandwiches and Tea with Milk,
Tucking into the very soul of the epidemic,
They light the Bovine Funeral pyre,
No Hymns, No Priest to utter kind words,
Just the sweet sickly smell of Death,
It lives on every blade of grass,
Makes a home among the bright Spring Flowers,
Following, Waiting,
Striking
Twisting a Rusty Blade into the side of Rural Britain,
Watching the Death throes of our once proud nation,
The flames eagerly lick and caress their reluctant partners,
As the Government prints Tickets for another feast
That no one wants to eat
Can they see the old Farmer as he comforts his weeping son,
With Anger and sorrow in his eyes,
Or are they just tear-stained statistics
For an Election that's already won..............