The General

The General is a blur of his former glory.
Fur flops round his face. Once, it was smooth
sable, now it frizzes, bedraggles in rain.
His scarlet cape is faded, sopping,
helmet plumes no longer wave – they’ve
become deely-boppers on his polished pate.
Swelling belly pops over silver-plated belt.
Bloated legs are wedged in turned-up boots,
tops drooping, spurs lost. The sword that lopped
off limbs, chopped noses, ears, is rusted as a mop
left long in the bucket. He’s washed out, washed up.
With pen and ink, his fate is being sealed.