This refers to John Barleycorn in the old sense, as the rustic deity he was before the boozers of the 14th century and Robbie Burns got at him. But "There was three kings into the east" adds an apt twist anyway.


When you turn old towns to wicker men

Mr Bush, Mr Blair, Mr Howard,
and you, Mrs Windsor too,
with your stamps and your May Queen crown,
remember, my friends, that John Barleycorn,
can be cut but
can not be kept down.

When you send your reapers
and storms of steel
to steal children’s hopes and feet,
remember, my friends,
that John Barleycorn reaps
the souls of the sowers of sleet.

When you turn old towns
to wicker men
and you burn and kill folks’ treasure,
understand, my friends,
that the guards of the past
will rise to take your measure.

The green man has not gone away.
The kaditcha is not dead.
When you daisy-cut all decency
one or the other,
or the ghost of god,
will in time, possess your head.

The featherfoot’s tracks
and his hunting dogs’ too
have been noted
in hospital grounds
by men who were sent
to tidy the lawns
when the horsemen had finished their rounds.

The featherfoot’s tracks,
they say, have been seen,
on a dune that was lined with the dead.
And they say they lead back
to democracy’s lair,
and your yarns, spun of shrapnel and dread.

But the featherfoot’s dogs are
the warrigul, dead wolves
and the hounds of hell,
and a scent they know well
is the brown bag’s stench
and the stealth bomber’s oily smell.

John Barleycorn will stand again,
when water rains, they say, he’ll stand,
tall, and as straight as a lance.
He’ll walk the white feather-trail, searching for you
and high on his shoulders he’ll carry the kids
who can no longer manage to dance.

Mr Bush, Mr Blair, Mr Howard,
and you, Mrs Windsor too,
with your fading, diamond, May Queen crown,
remember, my friends, that decency,
can be cut but
can not be kept down.

Peter Ravenscroft.

Closeburn, Australia. 30th April, 2003, not long after the invasion of Iraq. Copyleft. Reprint freely anywhere.