The faithful to the clarion call respond;
with voices raised, they loose their proud escry.
Above the tumult, voices ring as one—
"Fake news, sheeples, you've all been sold a lie!"
And suddenly the veil lifts from my eyes,
I see the glaring truth for the first time;
that things I thought were done were really not,
and even if they were, it's not a crime.
Seems nepotism isn't bad at all,
and facts are only facts when they are mine.
The poor will gain from handouts to the rich,
(and next, we'll conjure water into wine).
All hail this new and messianic King,
that preaches hate to an adoring flock;
an isolationist, he builds a fort,
a fortress sound and sturdy on the rock.
But sandstone's not a proper base on which
to raise a structure guaranteed to last;
the binders are so quickly washed away,
and shifting sand leaves onlookers aghast.
As cliff gives way, the bulwark tumbles down.
The flock are tossed into the angry sea;
and as the faithful wonder what went wrong,
the King runs 'round in panicked covfefe.
Then just like ancient Egypt, Greece and Rome,
a proud and mighty people bite the dust;
too late, they understand where they went wrong—
like Troy, their problem lies in misplaced trust.
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Author Notes
Today's word: escry (n.) a battle cry.
My much-treasured Christmas present for 2017 is a book by Paul Anthony Jones: "The cabinet of linguistic curiosities". Each page contains a descriptive story about some obscure or archaic word. It occurred to me it would be a fun exercise to try and write, each day, a poem featuring the "word of the day" from the book.
Thanks for reading.
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