The King Is Dead Poem by Sidi Mahtrow

The King is dead
So they said,
As they gathered round
The effigy King on the ground.
That had fallen under relentless assault
Of words, sticks and stones and other sort.

They danced in self-anointed pleasure
They had won, by any measure.
As in the Reformation, they embraced
The image of a Protectorate of unknown face.
One who would surely carry the mantle
A Cromwellian herding conservative cattle.

Then they thought: 'What is to be?
Who amongst them could see
And lead them now they were 'free'
Of the yoke of rules of propriety? '

But who would lead them?
Surely not those that only profited by destroying him.
It was clear, the intellectual elite
Shuffled off; this was not their meat.
The actors and actresses
Were only concerned with their state of dress (or undress) .
The moralist of no known state
Were not the ones to trust your fate.
Monied ones would surely flee
If the burden shifted to them from thee.
Politicians, with speeches to fill any void
Were not to be trusted at their word.
Interest groups with an axe to hone
Would like feral animals expect a bone.

So as they gazed upward to the stars
Decided, once and forever, a man from Mars.
And gathering up the throne on which he sat
Raised him high and began to chant:

'Long Live the King.'