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14 November 2005 @ 10:20 pm
Lord Lucifer - Tony Blair  

Lady Lazarus - Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it --

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify? --

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot --
The big strip tease.
Gentleman, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart --
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash --
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there --

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.


Lord Lucifer - Tony Blair

I have won it again.
One year in every five
I manage it --

A sort of walking disaster, my voters
Dumber than Gordon Brown,
My wife by my side --

A touch of glam.
My face a frozen, grinning
'I CARE' mask.

Fold the ballot paper
O my constituents.
Do I impress? --

The suits, the ties, the rousing, memorable speeches?
The false cheer
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the things
The sick prick promised
Will be forgotten

And I a so-called Christian.
I am only Tony Blair
And like Maggie I have eleven years to rule.

This is Term Number Three.
What a laugh
To fuck up Britain.

What a million mistakes.
The cheering, clapping crowd
Shoves in to see

Me get out of my limo --
The big I AM.
Gentlemen, ladies

Here are my children,
My friends.
I may be a lying creep,

Nevertheless, I am the same identical man.
The first time it happened I was amazed.
It was a landslide.

The second time I meant
To win again and stay in power.
I rocked with laughter

Like a maniac.
They had to vote and vote
And cover me with sticky kisses.

Ruling
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally badly.

I do it so it feels like hell [for you]
I do it so it feels funny [for me]
I guess you could say I'm a bastard.

It's easy enough to do it in England,
It's not so easy to do it in Scotland.
It's the inevitable

Triumph the next day,
In the same place, to the same cameras, the same stupid
Ecstatic shout:

'Hurrah Tony!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For living in my country, there is a charge
for breathing in my air --
It is really polluted.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a bus or a train
Or a parking place

Or a house or some food or some clothes.
So, so, you idiots.
So, you wankers.

I am your Prime Minister.
I am your Saviour.
The pure sensitive man

That rules your world.
I walk and talk.
Do not think I care about your concerns.

Rubbish, rubbish --
You poke and stir.
Rotting food, cigarette ends, there is nothing there --

An old banana
A half-empty can
A mouldy aubergine.

You idiots, you wankers
Beware
Beware.

Out of Downing Street
I emerge with my receding hair --
And I only did this as a dare.
 
 
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Poet Laureate of Hope Ende_b_browning on November 14th, 2005 10:25 pm (UTC)
I do it so it feels like hell (for you)
I do it so it feels funny (for me)
I guess you could say I'm a bastard.


This is my favorite part... hahah!

You're so clever, Tony -- I'm going to vote for you!

*sticky kisses*
Tony Blairmy_little_tony on November 14th, 2005 10:59 pm (UTC)
Thank you thank you.

Votes from dead poets count as 10 votes, so that is splendid :)
wyndham_earle on November 14th, 2005 10:30 pm (UTC)
Rubbish, rubbish
You poke and stir.
Rotting food, cigarette ends, there is nothing there -

An old banana
A half-empty can
A mouldy aubergine.


Such beautiful imagery... I can't wait until I'm dictator!
george_wbush_ on November 14th, 2005 10:38 pm (UTC)
And I only did this for a dare.

That's the only way to do it!!! *fires* pistols into air*
Tony Blairmy_little_tony on November 14th, 2005 10:53 pm (UTC)
*high five*

WE R GR8!
george_wbush_ on November 14th, 2005 10:57 pm (UTC)
"we"?

*gets out dictionary*

Oh yes, WE. Yes. You and me. (Funny what you learn on this job!)

WE R GR8!