Douse That Prophetic Fire By Nightfall, Sir, Or the Neighbours Will Complain

To be. To feel. To feel, to love, To love. To rage, To rage, to die Like a good Romantic, or to sleep like this, Ghosting about Like a loose plastic bag That flaps on a windy night Under a sodium street lamp’s Eerie all-submerging light. O Shakespeare, pity us, O Wilkes, O Pope, O Voltaire, O Heine, O Byron. O Shelley, Shed tears for us. We have mislaid the liberties You fought for. And the truths you taught us. The Board of Standardisation In the interests of this nation Will suppress the imagination. Like ranters at Hyde Park We’re still good for a Sunday lark. Our patrons are benign as long as we are innocuous. They’ll allow a little room for satire (as long as we keep our hats on) Just to show what sports they are. Toothless protest’s just a cliché, But don’t let slip a waspish quip, Or “Sirrah, Sirrah, the whip!” Tow the line. That’s fine. “Douse that prophetic fire by nightfall, sir, Or the neighbours will complain.” A D-Notice served on the brain deadens every joy and pan. Cross the heart with this red pencil And with this stencil write: THE END OF ART.”