just a slightly changed version of Poe's poem

"Ulalume a future to come"

"Here is where the machine guns nestle,
their barrels are crisped and sere,
their barrels are withering and sere,
During a spring day on this most lonesome west isle
in 2020, a most immemorial year.
They were heard firing at the walls, their cackle
caused complete silence and a sick atmosphere.
It was down in the dank cities of Britain,
In the ghoul haunted ghettos of fear.

Here once, by a history utterly outlandish,
to the independence of our souls,
to the proud independence, of our souls,
ruled over Britain, Blair, now lord of Belmarish.
His smiles were like scoriac rivers that crawled,
during this reign his propaganda restlessly rolled,
and people could not but imbibe his speeches,
which had as a penultimate, nightmarish goal:
to suffocate the moans of the suffering
and let extraordinary rendition take its toll.

People's talk was a silent murmur,
And our hearts were well fed with fear,
our memories were filled by fear
we knew the year was 2020,
but we marked not the night of the year
-Oh, lord have mercy on the living in this year.
People noted not the dim searchlights and towers,
Though once they had protested down there.
They however fully remembered the dank towers
and the ghoul-haunted gates of fear.

And how as the night was senescent,
could the pointy stars truly morn
-for the stars needed to morn-
As the silent cars moved along a crescent,
and stopped near a passerby lonely and forlorn,
violently he was taken from the present,
without even the sound of a siren or horn,
brought to a torturers silencing chambers,
from which no peace can ever be born.

And lo - "Such events are not printed in the Guardian,
nor in the Independent, nor seen by television's eyes
for they have cut away the important and therefore conform to lies
The tearful truth will not be dried on,
their pages and waves; for reporting it has its price,
Only some used to write with the fervor of a Lion
to point us to the paths of the wise
to the knowledge and peace of the wise
In present year such writings are never seen
and so the silencing down of innocent cries.

But the PM, uplifting his finger,
says "this writing I truly mistrust-
its propagandizing power I utterly mistrust:-
Oh, hasten now and do not linger!
Oh fly and bring down this writers gust."
In terror he spoke, and as pointer
used his gun-like fingers to point with a lust
his vigilant employee and harbinger
to this writers diminution in the dust
until I sorrowfully crumble in the dust

For I was taken to a place of horrendous dreaming
taken onwards through corridors filled with light
letting me bathe in sterilizing light
The Bunker's coldness was gleaming
with terror and disaster that night
I then could see to my ultimate fright
a metallic room and a torturers teaming
coldness, that shall never again set me aright
There I was wired up to a hell, throughout my longest night

Thus my mind was crushed and missed here,
and there the temptations of the past gloom
and was conquered from past's vices and gloom
and I was lain in room and constantly observed.
Once someone stepped into my tomb-like room
His satisfied eyes looking down my room
And I said, who are you, sir or mister,
to step beyond the door of this tortured man's room?
And he replied, curtly:" A messenger from a future,
your lost future, Ulalume."