Eric is a cockerel, Eric is a king. A ranting, red-eyed psychopath, Lust crazed and threatening.
A white-feathered, morning boaster, Running from the fox, This restoration rapist with his foppish locks. Old Eric, hen head batterer and corn-thief Committed bully and yet chicken chief.
He is cock-sure, cock of the rock, Strutting, hen stalking, Stark staring in the Suffolk sunlight.
Or, huddled thoughtful, rain-soaked in a doorway, Head cocked and beetling with his glassy eye Eric is my cockerel, he is to do or die,
Punk, red-headed, puffing, buff ruff Cocky as crimson Eric knows his stuff.
Knows when to rape and when to run, When to peck and when to stun. Ripping sharp-spurred, Worm-murdering Pecking and plundering, Eric is all life, right up until the minute We will spill it with a knife.
The sky is black, Thick poisonous clouds of smoke roll from oil fires, A grotesque, vision of an awful end - a flame asylum - With dirty fires, winking crazily on all horizons.
Hot like Hell close up, the flames tear the air, Shrieking like jet engines, their insane lights play, Upon a lake of oil which caught a car for an island. At its cursed edge dances a little oil spout.
Hell hurts and shuts the Sun out. Settling like a shroud, closing all eyes in the sand. It does the unthinkable: makes barren a desert, And creates pools, and gently moving streams with the undrinkable.
Only falcons trapped by their territories, watch this horrid, burning beauty, From fence posts and broken battle tanks. Hunching their oiled shoulders, they fiercely face their end, Or fatefully skim through the corrupting air.
Car tyres, lay tar roads across the sand, And desert larks skip from bushes dripping oil onto the land, The crushed bodies of a prehistoric dead bring all to nought, Somewhere a lunatic is laughing at the thought.
We'll have to arrange a clandestine meeting Among the nettles and dandelions, Behind some vacant Allotment plot.
As the Autumn twilight closes in, We could sit on damp sacking And murmur, softly, into the wet misty air. Watching the blasted stalks of the summer's sprouts
And the skeletal canes, the frames which once Supported swift, green, runner beans. I could learn to play the pan-pipes and serenade The cold, clear streams of some Northern moor,
Leaving the world to muse. While my streams chuckle, bell-like and clear In a reverberating silence. A silence, which will liquefy a curlew's cry.
And I could smoke a long, thin, white, china-clay pipe And think of the soul in empty places And of the soul of the empty spaces, That this world of man left, a long time ago.
Peter Warren and Michael Streeter's critically acclaimed 2005 warning of the risks that the UK economy was facing from uncontrolled cyber crime. Now in 2012, the risk is so great that the UK economy is being crippled by rampant economic espionage carried out by state cyber attackers - that some researchers claim accounts for losses to the UK of £27bn a year.
Research by the Cyber Security Research Institute, of which Peter is chairman has found evidence that some cyber gangs have accounted for sums in excess of £1bn.
