Once days had passed
And past gone by
Time t'was to build statues
So that men of earth would remain up'n ground
And those who transcended
Tweren't men
For statues have a certain way
Of transmutation into pleasant forgetfulness
That across the sands of Arabia
The grasped scimitar in Saladin's hand
Contained flesh and bones same as ours
T'would be dangerous indeed
If those grounded souls
Realized they had two eyes
And two lungs which which which
To see and breathe, much as van Gogh did
And worse, worse yet
To the necessity of grounding
Would be an identification
With a Corsican lieutenant
Or a young Virginian provincial officer
How well-cooked did Byron like his steaks,
And could not all of us dream and fancy?
And dream, as Shelly, and compose
Perhaps not well, perhaps not,
But at least enjoy the strain as they did?
Aye, but there's the rub
After power comes the sword hunt
And Bolsheviks and Shogunates
And practical civilized conquerors
Never want to see an encore
Hence the statues of
An ancient's towering visage
Immortal -- not mortal
Not flesh and bone
With which to grasp a sword or pen