Elba Isn't Far Enough

Napoleon, ensconced in his plush estate,
Has only to cross a moat to reach us,
To raise his bugle and resume the charge.
He's too too close to the crux of things
For us to ignore; we turn our heads
And stop up our ears
And assume he's enisled,
But he's wily, that beast!
Even as we, in our moment of triumph,
Pat our own backs and diddle-dawdle,
He and his minions are plotting, always.
His footsoldiers swarm in the swales and drool,
For eager are they to resume the march;
They lust for their leader, who feeds them scraps
But who promises glories and pretty trinkets,
Worthless gauds no honest trader
Would ever peddle. Beware these armies
So casually camoed,
So brusque and barbaric,
With mangonels loaded and ready to fire
On one word from HIM.
Before that can happen, remember Saint Helena . . .
Let's book him safe passage and bon voyage!