A night at the museum

A night at the museum

They fell in

Through a back door

Isn’t that always the way

No welcome mat

Red carpet ride

Liveried footmen

Guard of honour

The bones of them

Drunken heroes

To a man

Escaping the cold

The bitterness of defeat

The harsh winter

A time to beat retreat

They gorged their eyes on history

Stumbled down a hall

Lined with busts and statues

Depictions of times long gone

Slumped before a tableau

Of blood and death

Frozen to the core

Seared by recollection

Of another hellish winter

On the tundra

Warmer by far

Than cold indifference

Thankless intolerance

Of cold dark streets

The horror of remembrance

Bin bags and cardboard

Bigotry and hatred

Barely concealed

In the eyes of the well-heeled

Waiting in line

For the Opera

Or some other royal offering

As the fascist dictator

Rises from the shadows

In the corner

The flags of blood-red

The madness of silence

The dancing of ghosts

A place to sleep

It is not

And they push on

Back to the exit

The emergency release bar

On the corner

Next to the Gentleman’s club

Which never seems to close

But refuses entry

To enlisted men

And drunkards.

The King’s Head is next door

Where the air is blue

With the heat of a thousand farts

The impoverished

Rail against the yoke

Of sovereignty

Pub comedians tell jokes

And a veteran

Slumps head in hands

On a stool in the corner

Dreaming of a pleasant land

Fit for heroes.