The Eighth Scroll — The Morris Man Cometh

No occupation can take root without the connivance of local collaborators. They are often people widely loathed and suspected by their compatriots in peacetime. They avail themselves of the changing circumstances to wreak a squalid, petulant revenge upon the majority who, in the good old days, regarded them as ridiculous and trivial. It is an irony as cruel as the people concerned: nobody bullies like the once bullied.

In occupied England, this role is eagerly seized upon by a strata of society generally derided as a risible sack of capering nincompoops. We cannot know who owned the trembling hand which penned this instalment of the Scrolls, whether they survived this rustic inquisition, or fell victim to the imaginative violence bearing down upon them. We do know, however, that they were very, very afraid.


Lyrics submitted by BrutalBart

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