III Prospero Gallinari
Unlike Barack and pinhead Hillary,
Who strive to bring Marx in through your back door,
The Red Brigade! A perfect match for me!
Italian-style! An overt terror war!
Kidnapping Premier Moro from his car,
And, later, General Dozier as well,
Endeavoring to replace them with a czar,
We paid the mortgage for our place in Hell.
In nineteen seven nine, the truth to tell,
As we were chuckling--switching license tags,
The cops emerged and shot me up real well.
Now finally I've died, in prison rags.
We can account for fourteen thousand dead,
In what we aptly named "the years of lead."
author's note: Prospero likely didn't die in prison rags (poetic license was used here). Although he spent a long time incarcerated after his arrest, he was released toward the end of his life because his health was so poor. Despite his first name, he was definitely not prospering, and since the poem is in the first person, he may have felt that he was in prison rags, even wearing an Italian suit.
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