The barricades are up along the Mall
As tens of thousands throng Trafalgar Square
To proudly sing the Internationale
Into the icy cold November air.
The Met watch powerless as in the dawn
Westminster Bridge is overrun by hordes
Of citizens who storm the House of Lords
And set up deckchairs on the Palace lawn.
November 5th – a tribute to Guy Fawkes –
The day that revolution came at last.
As MPs from their windows stared aghast
The grass roots broke the surface and grew stalks.
Outside Big Ben, amidst this troubled scene,
His chesthair showing, megaphone in hand,
The messianic head of Russell Brand
Rolls down the window of his limousine.
“Sweet gentles,” quoth he, opening the door,
“‘Tis I, your leader, anarchist-in-chief,
Rambunctious harlequin, gentleman thief,
Protector of the poory-woory poor.”
He scales a lamppost, brandishing a flag
That shows his face atop the Union Jack.
“When I instruct you thusly, we attack!”
He shouts. “Unless, first, someone wants a shag?”
“No? Right then, lovelies, revolution calls.”
He grins through his miasma of a beard
And spreads his legs in trousers engineered
To flatteringly cup around his balls.
“We fight for freedom!” he declares, “if we
should fall, instead of hegemonic poppies,
Our gravestones shall be strewn with hardback copies
Of this delicious book, composed by me.”
“It will transport you, tease you, make you laugh,
In iridescent prose tell truth to power,
Retain the phosphorescence of a flower.
Without a single horrid tricksy graph.”
The crowd around him, silent and confused,
Have long ago forgotten who he is.
His manly poses, borrowed from Les Mis,
Have left them angry rather than unamused.
His chauffeur, Mick, can see the tide has turned,
And legs it as the public closes in.
That night, a bearded, scruffy, thin,
Unrealistic guy is slowly burned.