Epitaph on a Tyrant
Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after, And the poetry he invented was easy to understand; He knew human folly like the back of his hand, And was greatly interested in armies and fleets; When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter, And when he cried the little children died in the streets.
W.H. Auden is a favorite Modernist, but his work is often impenetrable. Besides this, I do like another popular poem of his, "Musee des Beaux Arts."
Auden lived in Berlin during the 1930s, and this poem was published in 1939. As Trump leads us into a New Outer Darkness-- or attempts to do so-- this piece gains new relevance (O that 1960s buzzword!) and credence.
I had hesitated to post it before the Refugee Children Separation Crisis, since the last line was not yet applicable, but I believe it is, now.