Red Sky

by P.A. Levy

The revolution was to be televised live;
kick off this afternoon.  Sky had bought the rights.
We sat all comfy relaxing on the sofa
scoffing the biscuits Garibaldi baked.
Turned on, tuned in,
Molotov mixed the drinks; done the shaky thing.
Trotsky fetched the ice.

But we had forgot to turn the clocks back
in time for October’s winter constitution.
There was a Marx Brothers film still showing
and Karl, with the bushy beard,  he was singing
about the proletariat, telling jokes about
the sanity clause in social contracts.
We lapped it up like duck soup;
laughed so much went opiate dizzy,
except Mao Tse–Tung who kept going on and on
about this little red book, so we sent him out
for a long walk to get chow mien and a chop suey.

A quick word from the Lenin Vodka sponsors
and it all began.  General Ludd had the plans
and the spanners, whilst Captain Swing leapt into action
with the Tolpuddle posse.  But things didn’t quite go
as anticipated when some street-fighting man,
having drunk a little too much lager, spewed-up
on Airstrip One and it all got very messy.

Power cut - the are lights out.
Burston kids providing chaos like St Trinians
miners or minors striking for their rights again.
Then came the riot police on the pitch,
they think it’s all over.
It is now.
The pubs are open.

Still, we thought it rather cute, that in England
Trade Unionist took coloured banners for a little stroll,
whilst in France, heads would roll.

Published originally 2009 in No Teeth