The Dance. Linda Devlin.
Fascism doesn’t come snarling and slobbering to your door,
He’s genial and sociable with an air of troubadour.
He won’t go marching to the dance in jack boots and brown shirt
He’s charming, suave and smiling and he’ll cajole and flirt.
He’ll entice you smoothly into an exotic dance of grace,
One that starts gently with aplomb and easy pace.
Sliding you across the floor to the lilting tones of Brahms,
Taking you gratefully with him as your inner demon calms.
Then as the beat increases, he whirls and twirls and smiles,
The tempo of the crowd will soon be pulsating to his wiles,
With effortless manoeuvre you were born into this dance,
Your heart throbs painfully in pride with this noble last romance.
No fascism does not tell you that the music will soon change,
As the staccato of the rhythm begins to feel a little strange,
The harmony will quiver as the sound begins it’s surge,
It’s uniformity pounding loudly to a regimental urge.
The rumble of the orchestra whips up to a thumping course
And the music crashes loudly, vibrating waves of brutal force
With disciplined momentum he presses, squeezing hard
Sonority all gone now and his movements feeling jarred.
The heat is up, you’re sweating now, although you feel a chill
This masterpiece is executed with the precision of a kill.
“Too much” you cry exhausted, to an explosive sound that thunders
Defeated you fall upon your knees and your very soul he plunders.
The lights go on, the music stops, your clothing’s soiled and stained
There’s trampled litter on the floor where once the music reigned.
All around the dancers feet are lacerated to the bone
Crushed and shaken, lying bleeding where the rubbish has been thrown
First the muslims then the gays, I think you know the rest,
Fascism won’t stop the band until we’re all oppressed.
You might want a happy ending but you could reflect instead,
Hitler died in a bunker, but Franco died in bed.