I'll turn Fawkes under rain slicked leather,
humping the explosive in a waterproof rucksack,
my dimmed torchlight making for the cellar.
My fingers thread the wires, red and black,
round the silver pins on the ignition device.
I've rigged the whole basement; front and back.
Tonight I'll exterminate the filching lice,
in their Armani and ermine supping their scotch.
The bastards above are parasites.
And when the fireworks blow I'll stand and watch
the bursts, the sparks that flame and ember
until Parliament is razed by white-hot scourge.
Every fifth of November I know they'll remember
that lions can bite when kicked from slumber.
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