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


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