390 – November The Fourth

Poem number 390
November The Fourth
November the fourth
In London town
A group of men
Are sitting down
Around a table
With their ale
Excited but
A trifle pale
“All set?” One asks
“Is all in place?”
“Of course,” Says Guy
“So shut your face,
I’ve got it sussed
We’ll make the grade
Kaboom Kablaam
The first man smiled
And gave a shrug
Clasped Guy within
A manly hug
“I hope you’re right
‘Cos if your wrong
We’ll all be dead
Before too long
Our heads cut off
Our stomachs sliced
Our guts drawn out
And fed to mice”
“Don’t fret” said Guy
“In 50 years
Our names will bring
A million cheers
As people toast
Our greatest hour –
The fiery death
Of those in power!
So worry not
Have faith – we’ll win
We’ll torch that
Parliament of sin!”
“Hooray!” the men
All cry “Huzzah!”
And move on to
Another bar
To drink and smoke
And talk and smile
All unaware
That in a while
A failure in
A simple fuse
Will draw the curtain
On their ruse
That morn’ will bring
A final breath –
November 5th
Will be their death.
But nevermind,
The fault is theirs
They should’ve simply
Wrestled bears
Instead of plotting
Death and treason
For a rather
Silly reason
But at least
Their deeds live on
Despite the fact
They’re dead and gone:
If they had not
Been utter shite
We wouldn’t have
Our Bonfire Night
So here’s to them
Lets pop our corks
And raise a glass
To dead Guy Fawkes
And all his men
In stupid hats –
We love you all
You silly twats!

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