Making moves of a peacock playing toothless
wolf my friend, all haute couture in hirsute
coiffure. Were you aware the role died when
comrades-in-arms shouldered jibes and fled
the field? Sure, you do look good in a suit, but
there’s never been blood on it lest you cut
yourself primping in a media mogul’s mirror.
Your right to front the tattered ranks was lost
when none could see your bouffant ego champion
anything but self interest. These past few days
put paid to claims you’re everyman’s best friend –
in light of your belated Banker mates’ fiduciary
finagling we’ve all learned to see your empty
rhetoric as stamped with their complicity.
And you would be our leader! Best you dress
gay again for Mardi Gras – parade your less
than salutary and unrestrained aristocratic
flamboyance as mere bunyip peccadilloes –
if that’s what you think we deem courageous,
tell yourself you are not ashamed of ambition
bordering on a grave, pathological addiction.
After all Malcolm – it is Your Mission, isn’t it?
© 21 January 2008, I. D. Carswell