I
The accused enters the arena to rancorous
applause.
The judges are jesters and the
heralds are heathens.
He stands above them, before them,
apart from them.
It does not matter whether he slips
the noose or dies in it;
The reruns won't stop for decades.
A sorry excuse for a clown tells us
This is funny and that is not.
This is evil and that is not.
Scripture is senseless
And the empty tidings of painted
whores and their drug-addled pimps
Merit front-page headlines.
Where now is that wondrous spark?
The saving grace, the city on the
hill?
The children of Apollo spend their
summers in Sodom,
And a simpering, capering jackanapes
howls,
Cheering on the sinners,
Condemning the saints.
There are no more appeals for the
human race.
But there is still time for the
things that matter most:
One last toast, one clever smile.
A joke and a wink,
And an audience too dim to know who
the curtain call is for.
