Prolificus

standing on the altar
of mankind  
his words ran like a fountain
professing his knowledge of nothing
but he could not stop the flow
on anything and everything
was it the sounds of his gutteral voice
even though he rarely spoke
above a whisper
that attracted the crowd
or the fact that they could not
understand his illogical logic
of rhymes and reasons
that kept them in a trance
of mystical embrace
the unification of spurious doubt
crossed their faces
and he danced and twirled
and flung forth proverbial adverbs
of dubious distinction
battered by the chatter
his lips flapping in the breeze
of what is and
what should never be
unending
would you please

Gomer LePoet....