White Knight

When we were five or six and used to play,
The rescue, the escape, the welcome home,
Farewell to the grit of enslavement, and the grinding oppression,
And the drawn out surrender of the glitter pen,
We always trusted in our white knight.

Our lifetime has doubled again, and the Knight is still there,
Though he is secret now, hidden from view,
Cobwebbed and dishevelled, but still able,
To shine once more on his rearing stallion up on the hill.
To rescue us, when no one is watching.

As we grow up, we realise, and see,
The true horror of slavery, and that no Prince,
However brave, however rich, can save those that truly suffer,
And then we are ashamed.

But our childhood saviour stays,
Always there, always ready to go out to the fight,
Should we ask it of him, despite all odds, and despite all curses,
My White Knight is loyal to the end.