Guantánamo Baby

The Lion-Tamer gags on his homemade custard
And reaches for more of that extra strong mustard
He’s seen all the news that Fox declares dead-right
And regrets that he ever subscribed to that satellite

In the Sword-Swallower’s dream
There is no need for the clowns
Behind the inconsequential screen
Where they tie up the hounds

In the Trapeze-Artist’s delusion
The nets are of bluegrass
For to fall in seclusion
is to cushion your own arse

And In the Ringmaster’s cabin
Arranged for distraction
The trophies of peace
Glow green with inaction

His hair writhes Einsteinian
With equations of chaos
He speaks with authority
Of the things that delay us

Late buses and bosses
Early chainsaw destroyers
Loose reigns on the horses
That drag us to lawyers

Unmatched socks and pink towels
from the tumble drier spastic
Lost car keys and snapped vowels
In my waistband elastic

For this circus can’t run
Without the gullible punters
That turn up each night
To witness the stunters

Masquerade their cheap tricks
For our‘aahs’ and our ‘oohs’
While behind the big top
They’re oiling the thumbscrews.

April 2006

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