They come to bring their music
Their pipes and banging drums
Their slogans and their chanting
Till they all have aching lungs.
They call for Greta Thunberg
To say again, “Blah, Blah!”
And laugh in mocking manner
At our Boris in his car.
From their marches and their rallies
That continue day by day
They demonstrate in Glasgow
That they have to have their say.
They seek to draw attention
To the planet’s dreadful plight
To the floods and droughts and heat waves
That are more and more in sight.
For some of them have come from where
The sea is rising fast
And others from such parched lands
All hope of rains are past.
And some come from the forests
Where their people always lived
Where their knowledge and their customs
All make up a precious gift.
But who now will be listened to
As each day quickly passes
And other oily voices speak
Of chopping trees for grasses.
In Glasgow’s halls that shimmer
There the powerful ones preside
While delegates write papers that
Show none of them have lied.
They hear the great man Attenborough
And Charles speak for the Queen
While Putin and his great mate Xi
Are nowhere to be seen.
Perhaps with Bolsonaro
They are floating down the Amazon
While chomping on a nice beef steak
With mustard he has given them.
Oh no, that is not really fair
For Xi and Joe are friends
Both pledged, they say, on mutual needs
To work on climate ends.
So will it end with one point five
Or will it end with three
With things just getting “a bit worse”
Or full catastrophe?