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George Orwell 1903-1950

Young man.

E. A. Blair.

Literary genius

An uncommon flair.

Each page, inspired, 

His soul laid bare,

Dystopia pondered

From his polished wooden chair.

He wrote of men 

Who lived without a prayer,

P.S. Burton, the tramp,

No grace, no air.

The squalor of poverty

Before ‘Coming up for air,’

On ‘The road to Wigan Pier,’

As he breathed Southwold's salty air.

In Spain, he fought against fascism,

With those who’d fought the Tsar.

Treats despatched from home

Included chocolate biscuits and cigars.

Nineteen thirty-six, he’d enlisted,

Received a neck wound the following year,

‘thirty-seven' saw him Blighty bound,

Recuperation and warm Suffolk beer.

Prophetically he wrote of today

From a past place, way back there,

The current society's injustices,

those Politicos without a care.

Portraying Manor Farm animals

Once Mr Jones’s happy lair,

Napolean’s dreamed awakening

An anthropomorphous nightmare.

Farmers and farmhands ousted,

Justice rightly sought,

Herd searching for equality

Some more equal than they ought.

He wrote of a young Winston,

Mr Smith, in Room 101,

A life played out to camera

Surveillance, not for fun.

He journaled the hardship,

The misery that wouldn’t cease,

Unavoidable two-minute hatred

And O'Brien’s thought police.

EA Blair penned 

Much. on the literary shelf,

Despite the angst of life,

He'd won victory over himself.

Thoughts to uncouple,

Thoughts he wrote to last,

Who controls the past controls the future;

who controls the present, controls the past.

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