This poem appeared on one of my Twitter feeds this morning. I wish we had more writers who were both political and literary. St. Andrew’s Day, 1935 Sharply the menacing wind sweeps over The bending poplars, newly bare, And the dark ribbons of the chimneys Veer downward; flicked by whips of air, Torn posters flutter; coldly sound The boom of trams and the rattle of hooves, And the clerks who hurry to the station Look, shuddering, over the eastern roves, Thinking, each one, ‘Here comes the winter! Please God I keep my job this year!’ And bleakly, as the cold strikes through Their entrails like an icy spear, They think of rent, rates, season tickets, Insurance, coal, the skivvy’s wages, Boots, school-bills, and the next instalment Upon the two twin beds from Drage’s. For if in careless summer days In groves of Ashtaroth we whored, Repentant now, when winds blow cold, We kneel before our rightful lord; The lord of all, the money-god, Who rules us blood a...