An October Evening at the Imperial Tavern
The sky's a fiery Turner smear. The sun
Has set. Two jets have made an X above
Where it has gone. The men in camo
Crowd the bar to parrot phrases they've
Been fed by parrots paid by plutocrats.
The barmaids wriggle close with beers
And flash their cleavage for their tips.
They dream of severing the hands which
Pay and save, and grope. Everywhere,
A sense that what we'd had is gone is
Growing stronger. Everywhere, the end
Is near, the titties fake, the saviors sordid.
Plutocrats, in pleasanter surroundings,
Still will celebrate, but we can see the
Sun has set. The X will mark where
We have fallen. All the fancy phrases
We had used to frame a reign which
Didn't last so long as we had thought
Are ringing hollow. Hear them now.
We're Egypt, England, ancient Rome,
Somewhere the kids will read about
In textbooks, just a smear.
poem by Lawrence Beck
Added by Poetry Lover
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