I passed a relic on the street
And the poor boy spoke to me
Of circa 1917
And when I looked into his eyes
I’m afraid to say I was not surprised
To see small golden hammer and sickle signs
When I said ‘Corbyn’ he shook his head
And I knew then; revolution is dead
And when the poor lad went to bed
That evening he spoke the catechism
“Workers of the world you will be risen”
And rested sure in a welcome prison.
And though we may be on a team,
The world will not be won by dreaming
Or rather walking while you’re sleeping.