In that most glorious year of years,
Seventeen Hundred and Eighty-Nine,
Almost all the ancien regime’s fears
Over their lasting fall and decline
Blasted forth in one long drawn out breath:
The middle classes were armed and manned.
When God was finally put to death,
The Church lost possession of their land,
The Nobles exemption from taxes
And the King lost his right to the throne,
None could hide behind swords or axes,
Suddenly the rulers were alone.
If only for a brief interlude
Mankind had fulfilled its destiny
Following lifetimes of servitude,
Breaking loose the reins of tyranny,
Exchanging their whips for liberty.
However grand it is to displace
Instruments of untold misery,
It is so often the sorry case,
Just like when Julius Caesar was
Stabbed on the ill-fated Ides of March
There was for Anthony no applause,
Nor was there for Cromwell on his march
After the slaying of Charles the First.
No thoughts turned towards their successors,
The victors are very often cursed
And trampled on by the aggressors
After the ‘noble’ deeds are performed.
For those with the strongest will shall rule,
And a new rule of law is soon formed.
Despots make the masses look like fools,
As they take the fullest advantage
Of chaos, with the lack of an heir
To challenge the newly crowned savage.
Whether the radical Robespierre,
The corrupt, violent Georges Danton
Or that gruff Corsican Bonaparte,
The Devil was replaced by his son,
As if he was born to play the part.
© 2018 AGP