Private Cleese did not
That is to say, hadn’t meant to
Carry the army on his head.
They’d all worked hard
But Private Cleese;
He was God.

Had the others gossiped less
About girls and boys and frivolous matters
Gods, they could’ve been
But not like Private Cleese
With a snap of his fingers
Worlds were drawn
And he carried the weight
On his weary head.

Private Cleese had not been
A Private man -
He lifted soldiers’ baggage
And held it high in hand,
But years of being God made him
The broken leader of his band.

His church and image
Gouged from God
Their God, their Cleese,
Wrecked in the scum
Of the world he made
Carried around on his head.