The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the
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smiling faces.
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He met the gazes --- observed the spaces between the
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old men's cackle.
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He brewed a song of love and hatred --- oblique
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suggestions --- and he waited.
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He polarized the pumpkin-eaters --- static-humming
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panel-beaters --- freshly day-glow'd factory cheaters
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(salaried and collar-scrubbing).
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He titillated men-of-action --- belly warming, hands
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still rubbing on the parts they never mention.
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He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating
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one-line jokers --- T.V. documentary makers
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(overfed and undertakers).
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Sunday paper backgammon players --- family-scarred
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and women-haters.
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Then he called the band down to the stage and he
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looked at all the friends he'd made.
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The minstrel in the gallery looked down on the
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rabbit-run.
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And threw away his looking-glass - saw his face in
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everyone.
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-----------------
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Minstrel In The Gallery
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| Jethro Tull |
