Painting Over Suella Mouse

I have a dream that one day all the food banks will be gone:
The lost souls supping by Chantry Bridge will have support
Or collect trolleys in Morrisons to a hero’s welcome;
There’ll be a school recorder orchestra in every former sink estate
driving the parents mad playing a quarter tone flat;
And people will come out on Wednesdays to clap carers, bus drivers 
and that lady with the lisp in the Coop who labours;
I have a dream today; a tatty thing with feathers,
I have a dream.
That kids will dream of the days doing stuff
For that old bloke with autism who bundles everything on his bike;
That workers who pay taxes which pay for granny’s carers 
Will have bigger statues than stately home slavers;
And Nigel Farage will kneel on a cliff and know
that boat people aren’t victims because someone spilled a milkshake;
That Twitter flag-men bitter and spitting will find 
compassion more alpha than dog-whistle banter; 
That saving lost souls supping by Chantry Bridge 
is more heroic than controlling a drone from a cabin; 
That people might feel a tap on their shoulder from the giants whose shoulders 
their tiny feet cleaved to, for whom they now grieve 
when beliefs turn into punches down at the needy 
they mistakenly see as a threat;
I have a dream today; a frightened thing with feathers,
I have a dream.
That the grieving widower will no longer feel a need
to doomscroll a thrill in rubber rainwear; 
That people might realise punk passed away in 77 
and think of something original instead of buying it like vintage trainers; 
That Range Rover owners who’ve previously told us 
how to cook our dinners might rediscover the bonus 
in breezing to Tesco on a bike with a basket 
and bump into friends on the way;
I have a dream today; a fickle thing with feathers,
I have a dream.
That lawns will replace resin;
Pensioners will love glaciers more than cruises; 
People won’t care who parks where; 
Online shoppers will break off from online nostalgia about shops 
and once again enjoy buying things in shops;
The doers enable the dreamers and the dreamers inspire the doers 
and both will be celebrated like influencers are now.
The church will stay on its knees, save drowning refugees 
and serve breakfast on the beach in penitence for pervy priests;
That one day we’ll remember when a child almost died, stepped in front of a bus 
or got that grim prognosis 
and pull that scream of disbelief from deep in our chests, 
point it at the world like Moses’ staff at the Red Sea in love 
for all we previously hated and do some sort of equation that won’t immolate forests, 
melt ice caps or push a child back into mad seas of lies.
I have a dream today, that keeps me awake, afraid in the night.
A terrified thing with feathers