Mother Superior stands in the doorway
Warm gun in one hand, doughnut in the other
“Get in”, he demands, “you’ll catch your death of cold”
Outside, all is quiet
As the unknown soldier rotates
The Ministry of Broken Promises roll out tank tops
It’s triceps for goose-steps when power’s up for grabs
Backstage, The Cure have taken Nancy Reagan hostage
And are preaching to a posse of people pleasers
Praise liberty, the freedom to obey
A windswept blond shouts, “the magic juice is on me!”
Coughing up banknotes borrowed from the unborn
Televised minds raise empty glasses and cheer
The rest mutter under their breaths, “I’ll get me own thanks”
“Pint of Churchill’s please barman, and set yourself up”
They chew on life’s complexities and ask
Why did Anne Frank never learn to play the drums?
Ben Rook 