A man walks about 
carrying a gate
chanting praise songs;
seeking to stock an open field with fire and sheep

he had seen Signs in his sleep
bingo! in the mind of his sheep
only, reality nullifies his dream

he supposes he holds its key
and his myrmidons, thoroughly afraid 
of hell must believe and behave 

he forewarns doubters anyway;
he’ll make them into scorpions
into serpents
into spooky wonkies
into reptiles and have them snacked upon 
by three-tongued cerberus, the CEO of hades 

he’s soon to see more passers, 
more doors, 
more sheep
more doves, saner people
walk past his door, unscathed by mischief 

they'll watch him kicking at the open door
frothing in the mouth, restless, insatiate, 
yet none caring if he be a seer/dreamer
or the new town clown out of sync 
with the rave of the now – the dance party of change

a frocked man walks with a gate
chanting war songs;
seeking electorates to stock in fire;
fire that’s bound to char his cloak with vex.