BOSTON TEA PARTY, 1992

            which was insipid really, like typical American tea;

            not like a cuppa steeped in the Earl Grey tradition.

            ‘Ahoy there, if you please!  Ye shipmates!  Look lively!     

Welcome aboard, ye Patriots and Sons of Liberty!

This stout vessel is the Beaver II, a Danish replica circa 1973.

My name is Samuel Adams, a Federalist and your Party host.

The cradle of the Revolution is Boston’s boast,

as reckons every true mother’s son of ye.  Patrick Henry
says cheapskate British merchants sell us low-grade bohea.
Its veritable bitterness will be the death of all ye.

You’re from Philadelphia, right?  Let’s hear it for Phili! 

And you?  From Melbourne?  Sir, you’re an honorary

revolutionary.  Prithee, feel free to shout slogans of sedition:

'Fie!  Fie!  No taxes, by George!’  Or ‘Hear, hear my hearties!’

So we dabbed our faces with ochre and lampblack,

stuck dark blue Mohawk feathers behind our ears

and wobbled after Sam down the gangplank to attack.

Phili, armed with camera and bag of donuts, watched our rear..

On the Beaver's deck stood Paul Revere, expectant,

regaled in voluminous chemise, breeches and black

Reeboks.  ‘We shall turn back those lobster-backs,

axe the tea chests and axe the tax on this pernicious weed. 

That is self-evident.  So which of ye mugwumps will be
so bold as to haul a 400 pound tea chest from the hold?'

A sassy slip of a girl stepped up and lifted the token packet

one-handed.  Then on tip-toe over the rail she smacked it.

‘Fie, fie!  Hear!  Hear!  Down with taxes, tea and tyranny!’ 
                

We sipped plastic cups of Salada tea, milk-less but tax-free,

while Sam drag-netted the dregs from the tannin sea.  

                                                                        Michael Small

Boston, July, 1992