The fourteenth hailed a Reaper grim,
Who slashed the skies and made them dim.
In the fifteenth soft rose petals fell;
The Plantagenets rode into Hell.
In the sixteenth a fat king ate meat,
And upon his many wives did beat.
In the seventeenth a lofty king would tax,
And meet his maker by a bloody axe.
The eighteenth came: powdered wigs in season;
Man danced to the music of sweet Reason.
In the nineteenth dread machines took hold,
And man was simply bought and sold.
The twentieth dawned all drenched in blood;
Red rivers foaming as if in flood.
This century sees a plastic world;
From noisy cots new toys are hurled.
Do we ever learn from history’s woes?
“Plus ça change, plus c’est la meme chose.”
© 2016 Nemo
Nemo is a poet from Thanet who writes poetry to improve his mental health.