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Poppycock!
Monet was enamoured of poppies and painted
them in the field,
Van Gogh and Cezanne used poppies for still-lifes;
their vibrancy appeals.
I
could write of fields of poppies gently blowing in the breeze,
But
actually they are inclined to make me splutter, sneeze.
Poppies
come and poppies go; considered pests by some you know,
But
they’ve never eaten orange poppy-seed cake or felt the breezes blow...
‘In
Flanders fields the poppies blow’ was written in rondeau style...
To commemorate young
soldiers fallen; a paean of death futile.
But
John McCrae’s poem was used
extensively as propaganda,
In Britain and United States, in Europe
and his native Canada.
‘Poppies for young men, death’s bitter
trade’ is Sting’s rejoinder,
Heroes and heroines now resort to heroin
and why do we pander...
To the absurdity of the Catholic
three-ring circus for a new Pope,
Cardinal vultures in bright red finery –
junior ‘poppies’ dispensing hope?
But for whom...the children abused?
Celibacy hides a sinister legacy,
At least the Borgias were ‘honest’ in
their depths of great depravity.
Ex Benedict has genuflected and left the
Curia though not in his prime,
Relinquished the inquisition, perhaps his
new mission is to play piano ragtime?
Pope sip more absinthe now he’s absent; plenty of
poppies there I’m told,
‘Tis no wonder they carry him about in a
chair, now emeritus fair and bold!
‘Oh,
flower of forgetfulness just an hour away to the moon,’ I hear her moan.
Those
sad lyrics detailing her addiction? No! Bipolar was Nina Simone.
My
writer’s block persists with further poppycock and as I give out sloppy copies,
I
can truly say, in everyway, there’s nothing new about my view of poppies.
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