Echoes Through The Feign (a poem)
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