The Ballad of the Innocent Man , Old Mate.
I.
There was a man—forty summers strong—
who’d give the coat off his back in winter’s wrong,
who’d talk your ear clean off till the stars went pale,
who worked till his hands were leather, his laugh a gale.
A little boy, one year old, with his father’s eyes,
clutched at his beard and learned how real love lies.
II.
But a woman wanted gold without the weight,
seventy thousand pieces, a jackpot from the state.
All it cost was a story, a whisper, a well-timed tear—
“historical shadows,” she said, and the court drew near.
No bruises to show, no witness, no trace,
just words like knives thrown full in the face.
III.
They came at dawn, the state’s black-vested choir,
cuffed him in front of his son, set his life on fire.
Guilty till proven, then guilty still—
the law’s new gospel: a woman’s word is the hill.
Remand. Grey walls. The stench of the damned.
Paedophiles and rapists on every side crammed.
Five months, eight months, a year and a day—
while the boy learned to walk and call strangers “Da”.
IV.
And the taxpayer foots the bill—irony sharp as gin:
keeps the innocent locked, pays the liar to grin.
She cashes the cheque, buys wine and new shoes,
while a father counts ceiling cracks and slowly comes loose.
No visitation, no photos, no voice—
the state stole his future and called it “protection by choice”.
V.
I’ve seen this play out on too many men—
good blokes dragged through the shredder again and again.
One spent half a decade in maximum hell,
walked out “not guilty”—but who rings that bell?
The friends had turned, the job was long gone,
the scars on the mind keep singing their song.
VI.
Another lad at uni—bright future, full flight—
accused by a girl who rewrote the night.
Lecturers spat, mates ghosted, the papers feasted;
he swallowed the rope when the lying had ceased.
She? A slapped wrist. A shrug. “Mistakes were made.”
He’s dirt and footnotes. She got parade.
VII.
I myself stood in court while coppers lied bold,
oath meant nothing—truth bought and sold.
Evidence “lost”, footage never seen,
because the law wasn’t built for men in between.
VIII.
And the hotlines, the “services”, the caring façade—
ring if you’re female, you’ll get the applause.
Ring if you’re male and broken inside—
“We’re sorry, mate, no funding. Try not to die.”
IX.
So here we are, empire in slow collapse,
birth rates in freefall, trust in scraps.
They pit black against white, city against bush,
man against woman—divide, control, hush.
While Rome burns fiddles play “believe her” tunes,
and decent men hang from government runes.
X.
But something is stirring. The silence is cracking.
Men are comparing notes, the red pills stacking.
We see the pattern, the script, the game—
how they weaponise pity to cripple and maim.
Your mate is not alone; he’s legion, he’s vast—
a whole generation bleeding out fast.
XI.
So let this ballad carry his name through the years,
let it howl in the courts and curdle their cheers.
Let judges choke on it, let liars grow pale,
let every locked father hear it inside the jail.
We are coming. We are waking. The tide has turned.
For every innocent man the system has burned—
we will remember.
And one day, by God,
they will learn.
Simo.
