'Tis the blogger at the Gates of Dawn. O pity him, awakened by the all-night party just winding down in his neighbours' house.
Don't let him in! He has an ashen mien and his eyes are dull.
Tush. Let not yourselves be so easily afrighted. He is a simple poet with a duty to perform.
It sometimes follows that these fellows do bewitch us with their words. Let him remain unheard, I say. Send him away.
Nonsense. This is the Eve of All Hallows and he has prepared to serve a specially-themed rant on the appointed topic of 'Ties' as befits this spooky Saturday. Poet proceed...
Thank you kindly for your indulgence. I'm picking up on an angle that one of my fellow poets wrote about a couple of weeks ago - game-playing in high places. I'm roping together a bundle of associations into this piece. Old school ties (and the self-promoting network that lies behind them) and ties of sexual deviance were only too happy to shackle up; there must be a natural proclivity there. They are whipped into shape by the presence of a dominatrix in suitably soul-destroying mode.
What we're talking about here is some of the two-faced leaders of our land and their seeming compunction to quietly get their kicks on the seedy side of the street while espousing family values to the watching world. The safer the seat, the sweeter the risks. Their worst crime? - getting caught!
Mae West is alleged to have said: "A dame that knows the ropes isn't likely to get tied up" - an aphorism as layered in meaning and innuendo as the best moussaka.
What is it with these men that they crave being tied up by whip-cracking, leather-clad femmes fatale, enjoy being force-fed steak and kidney pudding by 'nursie', love wearing red bras and stockings and having their bottoms spanked? This perverse lads' club of the privileged - who keeps voting them into power?
The poem is still a work in progress (fittingly WIP), so what you read below may not be its final form...
The Queen of Tarts
is dining out tonight
on weak men's hearts.
Make no mistake,
despite those artless pumpkins
and the too black hair,
all her treats are tricks!
She plays it mean,
but watch them lap it up,
the Old School Ties,
roughing it on the rutting floor
with their Mayfair Whore.
The Ties have spent a hard day
ruining the country,
so feel the need
to leave lax morals at the door,
down ten hail bloody marys
and seek release from affairs of state
in heavy sessions
of sex, pies and gaffer tape...
She binds them tight,
delights to hear their cries.
Sighs rise from senior ministers.
She sees devotion in their eyes.
They love her for the suffering
she inflicts and so
she sucks these honourable members dry,
souls and all
till they are howling husks
in her avenging hands,
these rulers of our land.
But wait,
a fat front-bencher flat-lines!
This was never meant to be -
the game become reality
on Hallowe'en.
Don't panic, cue the cover-up.
It's a well-worked routine.
The Party's over everything
so nothing is revealed.
The Queen of Tarts
gets double pay,
her lips are sealed.
The truth will not escape.
They bind, those Whips,
and obfuscate the deviant sex
with practised lies and good red tape.
Thanks for reading. Have a good week, S ;-) Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
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