From the Erotic to the Idiotic In starting this I'm feeling somewhat scared. Ottava Rima is a form that's been Used to good effect by poets who've fared Rather better than I have; have been seen To well succeed by being well prepared, Writing something comic or obscene To voice complaints or a criticism Couched in a caustic witticism. The master of them all of course was Byron, Trundling on for sixteen thousand lines, Mainly, it appears, with a hard-on; All through Don Juan you can read the signs. I hear some say though, 'I do beg your pardon, Where's the evidence he so inclines To write throughout in a sexual fervour. He's less like Eros, more of a Minerva, Goddess of verse, wisdom, strategic warfare.' I suppose that's true to a large extent But what, after all then, do we care About the character of his true intent in being so satiric, with such flair? It's very unlikely that he would repent, Retract his underlying eroticisms, Replacing them with courtly mannerisms. So, just as Byron sought to undermine Hypocrisies inherent in his times, Should we not then, also sharply shine A piercing light today on similar crimes Committed not in your name, nor in mine; Those negligently, cruel paradigms Of power, designed for the hegemonic, The devious, deviant, selfishly moronic? Johnson, Bezos, Bolsonaro, Trump, To name but four of the perpetrators, Head a stinking army, nay a rump, Of psychopathic, snivelling people haters, Hoovering up the profits, as the slump Is hitting labourers, the wealth creators, Driving millions into destitution, Smothered by a capitalist pollution. This Ottava Rima effort is pathetic Compared to Byron's brilliant Magnum Opus In which he is poetically athletic, A swirling cauldron filled with hocus pocus, Learned, comic, endlessly eclectic, Never losing pertinence or focus. Would he were here now with his sharpened claws To scratch the eyes out of those bloated boors. But he, of course, was more a Tory than The politicians and poets he sought to trash. Raised more a lord than a common man, His sympathies are, likely, less to clash With the monsters of our devious plan Than we who would indict them in a flash. To use his searing wit, all things Byronic, Could undermine our aims. Now that's ironic! But the plot to use a sharp Ottava Rima To savage all things oligarchical, Is pregnant in this adolescent scheme, a Side swipe at the trad monarchical (Perhaps I'm just a poor deluded dreamer) State that's verging on the farcical. As Lenin had it, there's a fine solution: In Greece, Byron died for Revolution! Let's take them one by one, these devious infants: So Johnson first, designated Boris, Building, despite himself, a stout resistance In us common folk who've not read Horace As he has. At least, that's his insistence; More a classical flower, than a florist, Vainglorious popinjay we should require To shuffle off into his own satire. A blockheaded buffoon, an unctuous creep, A man who lied his way to head the Tory Party, while most of us were fast asleep, Infighting among ourselves, (another story), Elected to oversee the State's upkeep But acting like the Womble Tobermory. Yet underneath his foolish, clown-like antic, Flows a dark and dangerous semantic. It's a strain reflected in that Bezos creature, An exploiter making depredations on Each worker picking a book, or other feature To reinforce his empire, Amazon. 'Do as I command, or I will beat 'yer!' They just cannot do right for doing wrong Inside his evil factories of the cursed. His form of exploitation is the worst. Designed to manufacture profits, obscene By any standard of civil or moral code, The employment contracts he's invoked have been Introduced to undermine, erode All human dignity at work. We've seen A fetid jubilation, a la mode, Among the tax avoiding oligarchy Celebrating his malign malarky. So what of Bolsonaro? What a jerk! A fascist placeman, product of a coup Displacing all the socialising work Done to favour those, like me and you Who don't own either Jaguar or Merc, In the favelas. So we ask, just who Will, one day, bring this criminal to trial, Wiping off his vile and hideous smile? Of course, the situation in Brazil Is mirrored in those South American states, Where humanising work, used to instil Just distribution, is overturned. The fate Of millions of the poor, drowned in the swill Produced by CIA-backed gangster mates Of US President (The Gangster) Trump, That preening, self-regarding Heffalump. Trump as President, you'd hardly believe it! Yet perhaps the Yanks really do deserve 'im. Not those, of course, those that would retrieve it But all the racists, those that would preserve 'im to mouth the hatred as they do conceive it. Most of us, it's true, would rather swerve 'im, Stoutly chuck him into History's litter. (At the risk of sounding satisfyingly bitter!) But I'm justly sad that such could be elected, Whose message is crude, insanely autocratic. Instead of tending to those who should be protected, He'd rather promote the semi-automatic. Let's hope there'll soon be sense, he's deselected And we see the last of this phoney aristocratic, No good piece of putrefying shit. (I hope I haven't overstated it!) I'll now conclude this Italian form of verse; I do not have the stamina of a Byron. I know it's bad but it could get much worse, Won't earn me any pension to retire on! Be fearful, though, you despots, you who curse Humanity: you will feel the iron In our depleted souls eventually. You'll be overthrown and we'll be free.