[Section 17 of 200 is divided into two subsections. The first recycles the comic bickering middle-aged couple, She and Hen, from 17. The scene is loosely based on a dimly remembered real event from my childhood, in which my mother insisted—out of sheer nosiness and bloody-mindedness, with no political motivation whatsoever—that we drive up as close as possible to a high-security chemical weapons facility. The second subsection contains a series of strophes and antistrophes sung by fictitious choruses, in the manner of chorus and anti-chorus in the earliest Greek tragedies.]

Part 1

Trespasses

She and Hen drive up to the gates

of the chemical weapons lab

south of Salisbury Plain. A grim sign

on the gate informs chance visitors

intruders will be shot on sight.

“Drive a bit closer,” She demands.

“I need a good look at the place,”

she adds, as Hen protests but still obeys.

Soldiers appear,

and Hen rams the gearstick into reverse

and presses the accelerator down

with frightened foot. “Bloody

coward, you,” She grumbles, looking back

at the picnic basket now pitched off of the back seat

onto the oily floor of the clapped out old car.

“And now you’ve ruined our packed lunches too.”

Part 2

Chemical Weapons Experts vs. Conspiracy Theorists

A Chorus for Two Choirs

Chorus

We drive to work in modest

little cars and supermarket clothes

that no-one will espy.

We check in with our finger-

prints and swap our jeans

for hazmat suits

as soon as we arrive.

Antichorus

We hang around the ancient

stones and rail against the sky.

From time to time a naked

woad-smeared man crawls

under the barbed-wire fence,

so long as he is not afraid to die.

Chorus

We work with lethal chemicals

and spy around the world

to make the world a better place

for ordinary Joes.

We handshake with the Saudis

and spend our hols in high hotels

that loom over the deserts

of the UAE. We drain the minibar

and join the dancing Bedouins

in their revelry. We toast

arms dealers and dictators

with glasses raised over an open fire

and bid with spells the winds

and Djinns of change come in

to desolate your holy land.

Antichorus

We are the police that free

the world of weakness and of crime.

We tap away at night with keys

to prove fake news and

false flags downed

their towers of avarice

and delight and blame

them for the violent work

that we ourselves have done

with language. We spin

a web of lies around

your carcass of a soul and mind,

cocoon it in a comfortable crib

of our inventing and send

you off far into space

to languish and to dream

to no avail.

Chorus

We put our passports

in our jacket pockets

and wend our way

on government-paid

flights back to our little homes

within easy commuting distance

of our work at Porton Down.

Our toxic legacy outlasts

all prehistoric megaliths

or seams of coal. Our mortgages

are paid by spooks, our cellars

dug in deep and sealed and packed

with weapons ready for the end.