Mr Cynthia

Gin home-made, cats un-spayed, life decaying
Sylvan house, police box at the gates
Friends allowed to stay by the Lord Protector's grace
But they must be out by eight
Painted tusks, Portuguese menorahs
One-string harps, some Burmese temple bells
He used his starry spell, art revolution to foretell
In ditties sung live from hotels
Sing us a song, Mr Cynthia
Rocks rain on the dank rooftop slates
Local kids just want a chase through the big iron gates
Through which they alone can escape
Photographs taken some years previous
Show him in a delegation still sleek
In Rhodesia and Belize, plaques & handshakes with dignitaries
Led by Minister Sir Joseph Meek
Sing for your board, Mr Cynthia
With this house band so tuneless and lame
As for the last time you're named
Next to this woman you've shamed
With your bafflegab and Wardour Street trade
At the heart of all photos is Cynthia
She's accepting a bouquet or ten
A national treasure, that's Cynthia
Protectorate Sweetheart, now quoted at length
Her blossoms of blunt common sense
Cameras rolled, the show unsold, the Ritz deserted
In their new songs he took no part at all
Witchfinder Aspinall pressed one temple to the wall
And smiled at him, appalled