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Echoes Through The Feign (a poem)

Updated on May 4, 2017

Once there was a guy named Stephen

who spent a great time a-weav’in

supernatural tales very frightful

with storylines not so delightful

and characters we’d almost believe in.


But with the success and the fame

the King donned his own name

and sought to cause friction

by fostering new fiction

that made his monsters, by comparison, just lame.


Spurred by his innate fears

Stephen spent many a’years

dissing -that which seemed fated

to be all that he hated-

with hyperbole, slurs and jeers.


Exaggeration poured from his mouth,

aimed at the military, the South,

Conservatives of any form,

anyone who didn’t conform

to the hippie ideals long espoused;


when this wasn’t enough

he went to the media to sound tough;

forgetting the Right to freely speak

isn’t defended by the weak,

Stephen assailed the military most rough.


And denouncing the new leader

elected by even his own readers

Stephen cringed in pure fright,

tweeting long into the night

new fiction that would not be detered.


Like Jack Torrance he sat there,

little venom did he spare,

showing them all,

the squares and the thralls

how a man behind wrought-iron can care.


For nothing’s spooked him so dear

than a President it’s clear

who puts countrymen first

and promises the worst

to any that would conquer by fear;


who stands as a friend

to those determined to rend

the regimes of fat Jong Un

and zealots in a mad run

to bring civilization to an end.


Thus angers the King

this man in West Wing;

for Stephen it's clear,

Flagg stands oh so near,

so he readies himself for the sling.


And snug in his manse in Maine,

where royalties fall like the rain

Stephen continues to write

and tremble with fright

that fans may not buy into his feign.


And if you’re dubious to say

the ego chases wisdom away,

remember that fiction

has proven an addiction

as the King echoes Gregg Stillson today.


©May 4, 2017 by Beth Perry



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