Speak of Love

I don't respect the people who were here
When I was searching for the Golden Fleece,
I don't believe the Premier, the police,
Or anybody else who builds on fear
To get me to behave; I won't revere
The ministers of war dressed up as peace,
Purveyors of old platitudes, thin grease
For broken wheels of commerce. I just sneer.

There is a woman in an alleyway
Behind the supermarket, selling weed,
A couple of cross-dressers, newly freed
From indecision, and two fools in grey,
And all of us stood up last Saturday
To speak of love, which is our only creed.