Caper On

We have a jester, not a king,

enthroned at Westminster,

a man whose last pie

was venison, not Ginster’s.

High comedy and low farce

play out in London,

with tragic consequences

for the audience.

They caper on, rude mechanicals,

devoid of poetry,

mistaking a degree for culture,

breeding for class.

Each bathetic leap

a graceless parody

of a measured step,

never causing a fall.

A troupe of dancing fools

who could stumble

catastrophically

and still be applauded.

Each one is transformed

by office, from ass to arse

whilst an aging Titania watches,

mourning the loss of Oberon.