In hell’s green room
two worlds collide
two viewpoints merge
and sparks will surely fly.
In the red corner:
the reigning king
teetering on his chrome throne
holding court for the dregs of the decadent 80s.
In the blue:
the rag-clad serf
who scaled the gates
of the fortified compound screaming songs of revolt.
The king’s court
contains jesters and handmaidens
there to serve their benevolent master
to hang on every cracked prophesy
The serf meanwhile
is a reluctant leader of men
the peasant who dared to put his head
above the parapet, only to be welcomed in.
Tactical of mind,
the king first extends an olive branch
only to have it returned bent all
our of shape.
The serf see through
the political moves of the king,
laughing, he stays in his seat,
knows that never the twain can meet.
Yet today their paths conjoin
in the arena of entertainment
with TV cameras positioned
on every corner, a rapt audience waiting.
The serf’s maiden mocks the king
suggests he should bless their new baby
so the king responds as only the king knows how:
with a gauntlet thrown down,
but the challenge of a fight
is met with derision and laughter;
and now the king fears for the future
of his career hereafter.
The king wishes to take a scythe
to the arms of the serf with the people on his side
but the people have the power
so the king lets it slide.
Even so, he can’t forget -
even when their envoys interject,
this slight upon his character
this silent generational threat.
While the bile will rise inside
so too the serf will ascend the tower
while the king watches, devoid of direction
devoid of all power.
Yet the serf is ill-prepared for what awaits him
he’s installed on a new throne
only to find he hate it
he wants to return to his people
but his people have turned away.
He can never return to his humble state
now he’s trapped in a tower
in a castle by a lake.
Now as his new Rome burns
he fiddles with a gun
turns on the radio and
the music of the old king is on…
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