Bastille Day Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

While fireworks exploded overhead,
worn women walked the street,
proffering for a space tired breasts torn bed,
at corners indiscrete,
their self-respect and shoddy stockings shed
in sticky summer heat.

While Paris echoed to the proud parade,
police patrolled their beat.
Atomic arms were to the crowd displayed,
already obsolete.
President passed as brass band brashly played,
agendas read deceit.

T-shirt tourists trampled city sights,
for them it was a treat,
and thronged the Louvre, stared from Eiffel's heights
till silver stars did greet
the careworn clochards sleeping out the nights
come rain, come snow or sleet.

While politicians praised a Press once free
with slogans slick and neat,
they stifled much dissent and liberty
with speeches sick and sweet,
sent riflemen to hush rivality,
yet taxes bare-faced cheat.

While platitudes were penned, rehearsed, why then
an angry crowd might meet,
for them, the unemployed, one million men,
unmet bills, no bills for meat,
marched with shop-worn wives and anxious children,
not words awaited, wheat.

This fateful day is feted far and wide,
remembering a feat
that to the tumbril took a tyrant, tried,
beheaded, sin replete.
But leaders of the revolution lied:
A fresh revolt is mete!