THE ENEMY WITHIN is occupier's
cant for native truculence - DOWN WANTONS
DOWN, shrilled as a battle cry. Their law
is checkpoints, riot vans in trysting-places,
curfew's stale enclosure; yet overground
the guisers swarm, chanting rebellion's
snatches of song, the oldest catches known.
Men stand together, shirtless in the sun
at Orgreave; women crouch beside the baton-
struck and trampled. Gobbets of scrap metal
go volleying over, improvised defence
against short-shielded masters of concussion.
Some fall to savagery; some rise to courage.
The rider leans in; the cosh begins its swing.
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