Ant Smith

All poems

The saint

Heroes choose their hearts
Whilst cowards use their minds
The former soon depart
Leaving only fools left to rise

Idiocy's an ancient trick
Amongst the waring lunatics
We love the loveable idiot rogues
No one's to blame, I don't suppose

When heroes die we then pretend
To venerate our noblest men
But Scargill, Foot and Tony Ben
They only came and went again

While fools flock and multiply
Heroes fastly, fastly die
Reagan, Bush and Boris J
Then bumble on to save the day?

If such men proclaim the saint
Then my heart lies, still with the slain
For if dragons represent Old pagan governments
I'd rather number in the dead
Than feel your honours weigh on my head

Don't call me hero
Don't call me saint
Don't honour me with special days
Obsequious praise from such tongues
Tarnishes taints any good that was done
Don't call me hero Don't call me saint
Drink to my pieces and drink in my hate
Don't call me hero
Don't call me saint
Let me revolt in my numerous graves