A Funeral Dirge.

Today is the fiftieth anniversary of Winston Churchill’s funeral, so I wrote him a poem. I was going to call it a “funeral dirge” because that sounds so cool, but it turns out a dirge is a song. Who knew?

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What a Man.

What a Man.

by james bezerra

Fifty years it’s been

since under the shadow of Big Ben

passed the body of the world’s

best ever alcoholic.

Hugely complicated legacy left

by fat little man from Marlborough.

Never imperious, always imperial,

colonial, racist, and drunk.

But yet,

whatta man, whatta man,

what a mighty good man,

a god sent original.

Admiralty, Gallipoli, depression, Ploegsteert Wood.

The Irish, the Kurdish, that pesky teetotaler Gandhi.

Bolsheviks, Fascists, liberals, Zionists, and

that Charlie Chaplin-looking motherfucker from Austria.

Fight them on the beaches. Fight them on the sea.

Nothing to offer but blood

and toil and tears and sweat.

A dangerously unique moment in history.

Now fifty years its been

since MV Havengore bore

the lead lined casket away.

Whatta man.

Thames dock workers bowed

crane jibs. The Queen had a drink.

A god sent original;

what a man.

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