Mysteries and Secrets

The censers swing to and fro, fro and to

all incense and purports it's no surprise

or secret sign and countersigning

of the cheques and balances.

The accounts do not tally

-ho the mounted fool sees the Fox

News report and drops the football

cracking open the brief case

and lets the button

press of its own accord.

We fools, we happy fools,

next St Crispin’s Day

might be our last

- so cry havoc and let loose

the mongers of war

over some barren rock

or damp-squib rocketry

in the distant east.

The senseless dash to and fro, fro and to

the lighthouse - forgetting that it stands

on rocks off, get your rocks off honey

trap, the golden showers father

not Perseus, but fall on our

own tangerine-skinned tarot card

sharp playing solitaire

in the Moscow Circus Hotel

who leaves his buttons

undone for all to see.

This fool, this yapping fool:

last election day

might be our last,

- so make havoc and cry loose

the horsemen in fours

leaving just barren land

and freak-show trumpery

in the desert West.