The Ballad of Santo Caserio
poem by John Gallas beautifully illustrated by Clifford Harper

uploaded to the internet archive https://archive.org/details/the-ballad-of-santo-caserio

Would you walk twenty miles and stab
the President of France?
I'd rather have a dog kebab
and give him one more chance.

But sometimes when the stars are bright
I think we should be good;
and then I’d probly walk all night, and then I spose I would.

Cos you can dodge the bugaboo
and quit without a fight,
or get your arse to Timbuktoo
and serve the bastards right.

Santo’s little life began
in Motta-Whatta-Hole;
papa was a ferryman,
mama rowed her soul.

Some say we are born with hope,
some say it’s education;
I say it’s a slippery slope
from Dinkies to Damnation.

He walked the Lamb at Passiontide
with vacuum-packed perfection;
half the bloody village cried
and missed the Resurrection.

Round the fields of boring places
sprout the seeds of pain;
sown amidst a million faces Conscience grows in vain.

Santo made his First Communion
then his last goodbyes;
the Milanesi Bakers’ Union
put him into Pies.

He read the argy-bargy books
that stirred up revolution;
he whisked up rights with pastrycooks
and stuffed the Constitution.

It takes a heap of energy
to give ideals to others;
me, I’d rather wait and see
and do with fewer brothers.

But sometimes when the stars are bright
I think we should be good;
and then I’d probly talk all night
and then I spose I would.

He dished up pamphlets, marched for peace
and organised disorder;
he unattacked the city Police
and slipped across the border.

He wandered here, he wandered there,
the comrades took him in,
from Val DeDream to Val D’Isere, from Trouble to Turin.

“Dear F, I’ve got a job in Séte.
The world will soon be free.
I haven’t done the details yet.
Long Live Anarchy!”

“Dear P, the hour of vengeance nears.
Remember what I said.
The air has putrefied my ears.
I have to stay in bed.”

“Dear Comrade S, I’m nearly better.
Please give X these francs.
This will be my final letter.
Day is Dawning! Thanks.”

One day he bought a ten-inch knife
and caught the train to Vienne;
I'd rather have a quiet life
and mow the lawn again.

But sometimes when the stars are bright
I think we should be good;
and then I’d probly see the light
and then I spose I would.

He walked to Lyons. Half way there
a steam-train partied past.
He hurried on to Guillotiere.

Night was falling fast.
He saw the lamplit Bourse ablaze,
he heard the bourgeoises shout;
trumpets blared the Marseillaise.

The Horseguards clattered out.
He struggled forward, row by row,
the escort smacked their drums;
Monsieur le President Carnot!
A boy yelled, “Here he comes!”

I grabbed the knife inside my coat,
I pushed the front row back,
a hatbrim brushed against my throat,
the carriage-cloth was black.

He waved: I yanked the dagger free.
His frock-coat puffed apart.
I shouted, “Long Live Anarchy!”
and stabbed him in the heart.

He looked his killer in the eyes
and blood seeped through his shirt;
he murmured, “I apologise; outside”
he whispered, “I’ve been hurt.”

I spose he wasn’t all that bad,
but probly bad enough;
but death is cruel and life is sad
and justice can be rough.

The population blew a fuse
and anti-Wopped the city;
me, I usually watch the news
with vegetable pity.

But sometimes when the stars are bright
I think we should be good;
and then I'd probly watch all night
and then I spose I would.

They sentenced him in record time,
he offered no defence.
“What I have done is not a crime; only common sense.”

They tied him to his prison bed,
he turned and faced the wall.
For seven days, the warders said,
he never spoke at all.

I always hate this bloody part,
it makes me bloody sick;
I hear my fatal coward’s heart;
I hope they do it quick.

And when they came at five o’clock
I shit my pants and cried;
my brain dissolved in fucking shock
and all my dreaming died.

They had to help him up the stairs;
they had to carry me.
We closed our eyes and said our prayers, “Long Live Anarchy!”

There’s right and wrong in everyone
and every issue’s grey;
life is just a bit of fun
and then we fade away.

But sometimes when the stars are bright
I think we should be good;
and then I’d probly walk all night
and then I spose I would.

#cliffordHarper #johnGallas #balladOfSanteCaserio