The nation stares aghast at the now grim fortress, our icy fastness,

Once warmed by the fantasies of smug and silken sycophants

Where now broken panes admit the icy blasts:

Fresh air, even reality,  

Rhymless, terse, the much feared verse

No prettily dripped couplets to oil the ears of princes

No trite anthemic polishing of crowns

Polemic, critique and vitriol,  

The loose cannon drawing frowns  

Although his work largely leaves me cold

One glasshouse resident will I miss, at roll-call,

The stone thrower in Motion.

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