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.