The Siege
After eight dirty days of the siege
the last thing anybody wanted to see
was Richard Madeley
going in there with an acoustic guitar
but here we are...
"Richard, can you hear me?
Can you hear me Madeley, baby?
What is it that they want?
What are their demands?"
(The following excerpt is taken
from a recording made using
a tiny secret microphone
concealed in Madeley's hairpiece...)
A helicopter and fifty grand?
If you'll permit me to say,
it borders on the cliché,
but I think they might provide
your lifetime supply
of Flamin' Hot Monster Munch.
Now that you mention it,
yes, I am feeling a bit tense...
it's not your everyday situation.
I think they're hoping you'll see sense.
You've been reasonable up to now.
It's really quite disarming.
Yes, I totally agree
that you're utterly charming.
What's that? Oh no,
I don't think I should.
Okay... just one little toké.
If only Judy were here...
(Approximately two hours later...)
In the afterwards of Now,
when you become your own lover
and the hostages around you
Monstermunch their way
into a crisp coma,
you will rise above the pavilion,
transparently opaque,
singing UTAH SAINTS,
U-U-U-UTAH SAINTS.
In this minty as Aquafresh masquerade,
dancing in a fug of essential oils,
enslaved and inflamed by beats
phat as Bigga processed peas,
waiting on the starting pistol
of the Ballet Imaginaire,
boots stamping on human faces
for ever and ever,
while singing UTAH SAINTS,
U-U-U-UTAH SAINTS...
B.R. 6/4/24
This poem completes "The Richard Madeley Trilogy".
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