Mata Hari Poem by Dave SmithWhite

The firing squad was ready,
to shoot you Mata Hari.
The sun had barely
kissed the morning sky.
To a courtyard, dank and muddy,
they brought you Mata Hari.
A famed exotic beauty was to die.

As their troops drowned in the slurry,
the senior ranks were worried
with the secrets of the bedroom,
and the scandals of the spy.
So did the top brass scurry,
from the light of Mata Hari?
You knew where all the bodies buried lie.

The elite of officer indices,
of testosterone conspiracies.
An old boy's own adventure, and romance.
In the world of lilting espionage,
they sought you out to pay homage,
and when they'd set their traps,
you had no chance.

Like the hunter on safari,
or the yokel high on barley,
they chased you Mata Hari,
like the pump does to the bore.

Like the rouee to Svengali,
like the angel on his Harley,
they chased you Mata Hari,
like the pimp does to the whore.

So what was the bleeding hurry,
to kill you Mata Hari?
Who saw erotic duties as a prize?
For all your favours curried,
duplicity, hard quarried;
someone put the mote into your eyes.

In the shadows stood a stranger,
of menace and of danger;
a mystery man of many private parts.
With no prospect to exchange yer,
this top dog in the manger,
let you cop it sweet for art.


So what was the bleeding hurry,
to kill you Mata Hari?
Why the rush to expedite your trial?
No exile to a nunnery,
but execution almost summary.
Your fate decreed with just the hint of smile.

The firing squad was ready,
to shoot you Mata Hari.
The clouds were shrouds
that crowded out the skies.
In a courtyard, dark and bloody,
a soldier's face, a study
of grieving masks of protest in disguise.

So what was the bleeding hurry,
to kill you Mata Hari?
Did you guess the reason? Wonder why?
When conquest makes an enemy,
there's only treason in Gethsemene.
You're simply taken out and crucified.

OPTIONAL CHORUSES

Like a bullet for Hambali,
the quick jab and hook of Ali,
they chased you Mata Hari,
like the ramp does to the floor.

Like the UN at their parley,
or the engines of mad Dali.
A Callis note (La Scali) ,
or a reefer for Bob Marley,
they chased you Mata Hari,
like a wimp does from the war.

Like Guevara to his cadre,
or a penitent to his padre.
Like Al Sadre to his Mahdi,
or a Laurel to his Hardy,
they chased you Mata Hari,
like the clamp does to the oar.

Like the churlish queen to Raleigh,
or Diana from her Charlie.
Like a Vadim to his Bardot,
or a prisoner from his guard, oh
they chased you Mata Hari,
like the damp does to the spore.