When John’s Up And Gone

Before the question arises,
before some anesthetized,
semi-literate and politically
exacerbated lickspittle poses
the inevitable ask, the answer is

no, I’m not. My wife is, and so are
my kids. And their kids will be, and so
on, but not me. And before you blink,
pause, and think to wonder why – no,
I won’t oblige. Bugger off, go away!

When ‘Honest (little) John’ leaves the
stage – whether on foot or razed in a
wheelchair, whether carried, dragged,
or gagged matters blot; when John’s up and
gone then maybe I’ll say whether or not.

I’ll say I’m glad, I’ll say I’m proud,
I’ll sing the national anthem out
aloud – and crikey, maybe I’ll write
a poem to celebrate, to conciliate
those years of shame.

Yeah, when John and his coterie of
blame is gone I’ll wear a wig, I’ll dance
a jig, I’ll beam a manic grin; but listen
mate, I’ll bet I still won’t tell you straight
of what I’m not!
© I.D. Carswell 2007-01-19