The French Revolution Poem by John Lars Zwerenz

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

Amid the din
Of factories which lie within,
Where can one go,
What can one do-
But think of Rousseau,
And Montesquieu?
And when the mired mind of Robespierre
Wrought chaos in the Parisian square
Of the stony, old Bastille
Bonaparte began to roll the wheel
Of tyranny in his reddish psyche.
He inhaled the sea
Of azure brine,
Waiting for the rhapsody-
That horrid, fateful line: -
'Death to the Monarchy! '
Ah! How he reveled in France's foolery,
When the masses hailed 'Liberté, égalité, fraternité! '
And then, like harpies,
Released from on high,
With a devastating cry
Waterloo's cacophonies
Ended the nation's futile sigh,
Born of The Enlightenment,
Of blood, stupidity and death.
Now France's firmament
Resembles a wistful, indifferent breath.
(And I meditate, as I write this text,
On America, that once great land -
That she just might be next
To collapse into the oceans' sand!)