Champagne Socialist – your stance ignores
All logic – do you open doors
To your house, to all comers
In winters and summers?
Is your home a country of laws?
I hope that you can see why I must act.
I’ve searched my soul – I’ve given it much thought;
Night after night, with demons I have fought.
As for advice – well that I haven’t lacked;
Most lend support; by some I’ve been attacked.
To stop me – I know that is what he sought –
That man – I put his interest at naught;
He has no claim – you’re mine and that’s a fact!
So I’ve decided – oh please understand!
It’s with regret that I must let you go,
Before you see the world – before you cry.
It’s cruel I know, but I must make a stand.
And though this is for you a fatal blow,
For my sake you must go…and so…goodbye.
Out onto the stage strode their hero –
The great actor and sage, good and wise;
All applauded, and tears filled their eyes.
Then was quiet, and the crowd strained to hear
The fine words of the Hollywood seer.
“Shakespearian!” would be the headline;
“What a speech – eloquent, and devine!”
Now the place was as silent as death,
As the thespians all held their breath.
“Fuck Trump!” said the brilliant De Nero.
You lie there at the bottom of your cage –
A pretty corpse dressed ready for the grave;
My singer – every day I’d pay your wage
With seed, some fruit, in many ways your slave,
Was I. And for your pay you’d sit and sing
Upon your perch, a tune that I had taught
You. Proudly you’d display with outstretched wing
Your pretty colours. I recall, I caught
You in the spring after a thunder-storm,
When by the wind your aviary was wrecked.
You were, back then, a young bird fine in form,
Bright yellow, green and blue – my hand you pecked.
It’s funny – yesterday you seemed quite well;
Best bury you before you start to smell.
On high Olympus Zeus waters his plants.
His garden blooms; he blows away the snow.
Apollo’s firing arrows from his bow,
As Hera, washing done, hangs out her pants.
Poseidon, Shaker of the Earth, just rants;
He can’t get used to life laid-back and slow.
He longs to plunge into the sea below,
And knows that one fine day he’ll get the chance.
Hung-over, Dionysus grunts and groans,
While Hestia, hearth bound, clears out cold ash.
Vain Aphrodite puts her makeup on,
While razor-sharp, his spear-tip, Ares hones.
The smith Hephaestus gives hot bronze a bash.
They’re out of fashion – but they haven’t gone.
Oh no, they haven’t left the mountain top.
Up on those cloudy heights they still reside;
Wait patiently for what The Fates decide.
On fertile slopes, grows high, Demeter’s crop;
The heavy heads of grain she soon will lop.
And Hermes, fleet of foot, still travels wide;
As exercise, the god won’t be denied.
Athena, helping Hera, wields a mop,
As Artemis heads off to hunt for deer;
Her quiver and her bow across her back.
Hephaestus is still making lots of noise,
And Dionysus downs another beer.
Zeus gazes down on Greece, gone to the pack,
And smiles at the obtuseness of his toys.