Saturday, February 25, 2006


Through the parched yellowing history
you're galloping myth infects
lionizing lands breeched from afar.
Forever etching
an imperialist's journey
into sacred Siam’s
ignoble star.

You were England’s mistress,
an ambassador brought,
to child-like liege,
then silly country taught.
Bodice constrictions,
penning fictions into fame.
How beastly barbaric was
that unwilling heart to tame?

Fed on that false trumped legend
your words refuse yet to die.
A musical fiction bursting forth
has all but eclipsed each quiet lie.
And now when one ponders
the supple questions; what and who.
He merely hums several joyous bars
“getting to know you.”

Or conjures reflections to mind,
from the glean of a bald Russian pate,
the road may have been for journeys -
Alas, some destinations arrive too late.

Was not the pallor and cheek of England bruised,
ancient and self-serving;
a sovereignty confused?
Sickly swollen superiority,
ample absurdities must now decry,
"T’was Anna then, my lord…
and never The King And I."


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