Roundheads and Cavaliers

Posted byaprettykettleofpoetry Leave a comment on Roundheads and Cavaliers

I’m for Parliament. You’re for the King.
It’s more important you lose than I win.
Taking a stand, there’s no sitting on the fence.
I’m for Cromwell. You’re against.

Your men, for their cavalry commander, bark.
Cocking their legs at Pym, jumping at Charles.
Capturing Rupert’s black mongrel, we cut off its lugs
And make it a Roundhead; A pox on you Royalist dogs!

At Nottingham, you raised your standard.
The blackest year I’ve ever had.
While chaos in the countryside continues to grow
Landlords, levellers and clubmen come to blows.

If you’re not on my side, you’re on the other.
Dividing the loyalties of wife and mother.
You’d think we could find some common ground
But the world and our hearts are turned upside down.

At Edgehill, bitter rivalry finally got the better of us
With russets and browns, greens and buffs.
As all turned grey in the gunpowder smoke,
Field-signs set us apart on our coloured coats.

We fire our matchlocks, attack and retreat,
As pikemen form hedgehogs, and die on their feet.
Though they may number four score and ten
We bury more toes and fingers than we do men.

You take the piss out of our New Model Army
Coining it The New Noddle in taverns round the country ;
But with your Queen’s Pocket Pistol renamed as Sweet Lips
We taste revenge with every sip!

I’m so under the influence, I can’t see straight.
Marching a vicious circle that just won’t break.
I’ll be fucked if I give up on this uncivil war!
That tyrant and traitor will pay for it all!

Published by aprettykettleofpoetry

John Di Girolamo was born during the swinging middle ages as the Battle of Hastings raged outside on a cold, miserable Saturday evening just outside 'The Juggler's Arms' in Oxford, Torquay and Exeter at the same time. Born to a family, he spent most of his early years learning how to open umbrellas for a rainy day, and the runnings of horses and sword swallowers and the costs they incurred. Having graduated in 'Circus Management', he took to spinning plates for a living and persuaded his father to buy a restaurant to fund what he believed would be a lucrative career move. However, in the the days leading to The Age of Post Punk', he quit and would embark upon what was to go down in history doodles as a notebook. Few knew it then but he had already started copying poetry, and often written by other people. As the minutes passed by, and Sardinia loomed, the idea of collages and drawings suddenly hit him as a way of filling up what had become a kind of book with pages and all. One day while storming off in a huff because his mum told him to, he struck upon the idea of putting it all together over a long-playing record (later a CD) and during a commercial break in the digital age, decided a blog would end Cromwell's ill-fated republic. Sent off by recorded post, it would be by chance that his poems would get to their ultimate destination as, meanwhile, his pigeon who had queued so loyally for so long, sadly died the day before it was sacked.

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