Rebel (Poetry)

I am the nascent rebel —
the grumble getting loud,
the mutineer-in-waiting,
the jeer from out the crowd.

I plot small insurrections —
send emails to The Times
on civil rights and parking,
sly, robber-baron crimes

committed by the council
(I loathe them to a man),
protest as much as any
peeved, law-abider can.

My name is on some black list,
of that I have no doubt —
Big Brother keeps a record
of drones who whinge and spout.

I bide my time and listen —
the voice of discontent
rumbles through the suburbs
as mutterings ferment.

The underdogs are growling —
there’s something in the air,
and come the Revolution
I’ll be the first one there.