Enemy of the State

The Public Enemy

Mr Power is a high-flying wag, 
A swine with global trotters
Belongs to a guild of bankers, 
Low-lying despots and rotters,
Well, "guild" isn't really the word,
The collective term is "a wunch"
In the world of empire building,
There really is a free lunch
His influence stretches afar,
With fingers in many a pie:
Politics, oil and security, 
Without trying he hits the bullseye
I'd say he was humble and noted,
But he's more of a blimp and a stooge
Small but his ego is bloated 
And his sense of entitlement's huge
He parades on stage like Olivier,
Treading the boards like a pope
He once cracked the floor and fell through,
Pity there wasn't a rope
Completely devoid of talent,
He ascended the greasy pole
If the Devil's a Bilderberger,
Then we know where he bargained his soul
He'd flog his Ma for the wit of Wilde,
His Pa for the hand of Yeats
But he'll never be more than a footnote
On a list of history's ingrates 
He's surely a man for all seasonings,
Though others would say he is not
A missionary tribe in New Guinea,
Threw his "flabby old arse" out the pot
His honourable goal's immigration,
Take the third-world into the first
A sport for his own amusement:
Which poor wretch will come off the worse?
In life he's revered by shysters,
Architects from the Devil's own pit
You can find out their names in the future,
Their graves will be drenched in spit
He longs to fiddle like Nero,
While the countries around him all burn
You can find him at the United Nations,
Screaming, "By gad, it's my turn!"
In the race for a New World Order,
He's the man in pole position
He's the hammer of the western world,
Eyes fixed strangely on Great Britain
Forget ten thousand years of progress,
Mr Power knows better than you
He don't give a damn about history
And the lessons of what not to do
He's a morally superior beast,
With godly pretensions and such
Not quite a turbo-charged stallion,
More of an old two-stroke Puch
You can catch him each night on a Friday,
Preaching pearls from afar
At O'Reilly's, O'Neil's or O'Sullivan's,
Or some other fake Irish Bar
Mr Power and all of his schemers
Have a sanction to rewrite the rules
Infiltrating organisations,
Such as governments, unis and schools
He knows what's best for the people:
They’re too stupid to understand
Like turkeys voting for Christmas,
They'll concede the fat of the land
Using stealth and propaganda,
He preys on the minds of youth
Locked in a Stockholm syndrome,
They'll believe anything but the truth
He casts a crooked shadow
and has discord wherever he goes
On a cock-horse, a sweating Godiva,
One more fool in the Emperor's clothes.

© Severn Dwyer. 2015

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