Cross

They scratched it on the walls of caves

Carved it in flesh

Marched it towards crusader carnage

They formed it from pure gold

And festooned it with precious stones

There it is in neon against the city sky

Tattooed on the chest of a football fan

Worn at the neck of a Nazi soldier

And standing in serried ranks

Over massed graves

The shape of this thing was made for murder

It was for pinning dissent like a butterfly

It was a ragged signpost towards public disgrace

A rough pole to fly a flesh-flag of warning;

Conform, or this will be you

Simon

Carry my cross