Villains' Banquet

Everyone's here
from the Grand Vizier
to the Nazi colonel,
from the fairly infernal
to the petty schemer
who arrived in a Beamer
and laughs nervously
between gulps of Burgundy,
hoping some maleficience rubs off on him -
they've all come! Every black-heart Sonny Jim,
every pimple and pile on Beelzebub's anus,
the vicious, the vile, the loathsome, the heinous,
and each of the worst of them's brought his second.
They party is frothing, the table is fecund
with steaming fodder as the cads assemble
and scrape their chairs while the waiters tremble.

"Try ze vine," says Hauptmann Von Stalhein,
extending begloved hand to the decanter.
"I assure you, it's excellent." "Divine,"
says Voldar, "but gentlemen, this banter
is getting us nowhere." "How fabulous
to see you all here - what trick of fate
has united us?" says Rastapopolous.
"Why, Jafar, you've hardly touched your plate!"

Bounders in capes
pass round canapes,
scoundrels with goatees
chow down goat's cheese
on Town House crackers,
arms industry backers
munch oily salads
while power ballads
blair from their i-pods,
bloody-aproned cabalists raise glasses to dark gods,
dabblers in chicanery scoop up caviar,
Yakuza chiefs chew calimari from Zanzibar.
Their anecdotes alienate better than Brecht did,
party-crashing goths are forcefully ejected.

"Leaving so soon?" purrs Lord Summerisle,
as Igor stands up, brandishing a Luger.
"I'm afraid I can't allow that. Please, stay a while."
"Don't make me come on all Freddie Kreuger,"
warns Tom O'Riley, while the Hauptmann advances:
"I'm afraid I will find it hard to dissuade
my guards from killing you." "Buddy, your chances
of escaping are nil," beams Jack The Blade.

And every cur
who feels the spur
erupts from his chair
with traditional flair,
armed to the teeth,
and topples beneath
the resulting hail
of slugs and ale.
Blood on the placemat!
While those who stay sat
are locked to their seats by a springing of manacles.
Blighters, cut-throats, Napoleons, Satanicals;
all are swiftly muted
when electrocuted.