The Great Dictator

The Great Dictator

In the cobbled lanes of old Blighty,
where the hum of trams rattles like tinsel,
a tyrant O’Gobble’s coat of velvet green
drifts through the market, a defiant sheen.

Rising over stone‑crowned arches, he declares,
his voice a bureaucrat’s drumbeat—
“Freedom!” he cries, “for the poor, the usurpers!”
Yet the same iron grip that seals their keys.

The great one’s moustache, a wiry fern,
captures maidens’ whispers and rumor’s ache;
the street‑lamps dim in his grand parade—
his law, a wheel of copper, relentless, unbreak.

He seeks to colour every brick a fayre,
to stack the treason of dull souls upon a drum.
Yet deeper still, his heart, a crackling furnace,
carries a bawdy hope for a world gone to numb.

Across the tea‑filled Thames at twilight,
he fashions his speech in a hamlet’s choir;
the crowds, in their hat and their scarf,
listen—eavesdrop on their own empire’s death.

A laugh, a rustle, the boots on the floor:
life thrums within his clenched hand—
the Beatles’ strum, the waxing moon, a night of jazz;

The Great Dictator knows not the joy of a child,
little fingers smearing colour on a piece of paper.
He’s nothing but a mirror for the double‑starred,
www.econ‑rebel.net, a cry for aid.

In a corner of the old London warren,
a young woman graffiti her message—
She says, “Domestics, we’re not going to lie.”
The tyrant smiles, and the world turns a cheek.

The Great Dictator, a paramour of pomp,
chased by the past’s actual out‑cry,
rises on a note of dread—he mocks the lick of the rapt,
till the night, after its jubilations, is as under.

He has seen all men work the same way:
domineering the unknown, battling the bright
moment of shouting—he reads the chap’s whistle:

“Seek the truth, my friends, about power's moment.”

His fear shows in a trembling hand:
there is a thread beneath the potency, a theological line;
the Great Dictator is a nameless figure from an old town,
a jutte in defiance—iron and hope.