b.z. niditch | the royalist


Thinking you were
the upper class wit
and always in the Right
in Paris you obeyed
rules of the Jesuit,
with your cleft chin
stuck up
with power like sin
trying to steal
my German half-violin,
berating the Left
day and night
hating Marx and Lenin
you wait every day
along the hallways
for a school fight,
you challenged
my friend Charlie
with a sword to duel
carrying your Dali book bag
looking like a fool,
at every demonstration
for the union or peace
you showed up with thugs
in Marseilles or Nice,
was your guts and blood
any better than ours
on the ground,
when you lay there
without a flower or prayer
or making any sound.

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