On the passing of the 43rd Dragoon of D.C.

Here lay this plain Plantagenet having sung his final song

And many of us believed in his god guided madness

 

Confused be our sadness, for little was achieved

Our woollens have different colours, yet we went along

 

There is a hint of arrogance, his lips pursed to a smirk

His skin is pale; yet look underneath at that red meat!

 

He had this heat blowing around his starched rhetoric

It could be stifling; so was the place of his work

 

We go about his memorial with unsent letters in hand

Disillusioned ones filled with our uncensored diction

 

Our grief his fiction, according to his dark suited minders

We were not true followers; we were not putty in his hand

 

So he is trussed like old Lincoln, with a unique number plate

And for as long as he has passed he’ll still be a Mister

 

Alert as a lister of his grand achievements when in office

He kept them coming and we were told to patiently wait

 

A ray of sunshine stabs at his plinth in a late morning gloom

A bit harsher a stab and his memory would be disfigured

 

To end up reconfigured as history more to our liking

And leftover in darkness like an unwanted heirloom

 

So he is gone; and the spaces surrounding him are clean

No dry grasses, gnarled trees or frayed cacti to be found

 

We dare not think profound; for nature dares not to be near

The man had an enigmatic flair for long coming and just been.