History is my tattletale mistress (a poetic pause)

History is my tattletale mistress. She is no Madame de Pompadour, Just a frequent whisper in my ear.

Madame de Pompadour was a member of the French court. She was the official chief mistress of King Louis XV from 1745 to 1751

History is my tattletale mistress.
She is no Madame de Pompadour,
Just a frequent whisper in my ear.

Her voice is clear, calm and crisp,
Telling tales of her slandered past,
Of contracts broken
And atrocities unspoken. 

Her memory is etched so deep, 
It renders fools and courtesans,
To their proper place-- 
In the loony bins of utter disgrace.

History is my mistress so resolute,
Petitioning for the truth being told 
The doting parent,
Scolding destitude despots,  

She has many guises for many times 
And many places, traveling incognito, 
An open book, a wise word, 
A pungent phrase well turned. 

She is a canary in the coal mine 
Fluttering, preening, tweeting
Ocassionally gassed by the lies and buffoonery 
Of dark times and eternal trickery.

She is the tempestuous shrew, 
Contemptuous and shrill,
When lies told too often
She slays what is untrue.

Orwell was her chief apprentice of his time, 
He heard and wrote so much, so soon
Even now he haunts the houses 
Of the bastard despots.

History is the Cassandra of all time
Plucking the strings of truths untold
And the verity of prophesies 
As they unfold.

She is the persistence of memory, 
The foil of evil times,
Invoked to slay tyrants 
Singing their revisionist rants.

Pandora's chest so very old,
Casting evil on a glutted world.
History, post haste, persists, 
As Pandora's most worthy foe.

History is our story,
Not for slandering, not for sale,
Not up for auction, to delusional despots--
Bastards sporting their soiled souls.  

Alas, for so many, History is no more,
Just the old lady living in her shoe, 
She knows the past, present, and futures to come.
We are such repetitious souls, unrelentingly so.

Madame de Pompadour
Hangs on the wall in her grand manor
There is no chatter, 
Just faint whispers in darkened halls.

History is my tattletale mistress.
She is no Madame de Pompadour,
Just a frequent whisper in my ear.