Yeah, I know all about your people How they worship drunken image How they've exalted you to the status Of a hero, a legend A mythological god Bacchus best buddy You keep good company but swine follow you Different as day and night Yet they all clamor for a good seat They fight and swing fists For a place in the front row For the chance that a stream of gin-soaked spittle might splat on one of their faces a soothing balm a gob of stench and sputum They gather it up They mix it with mud Thicken it into gel and bow down to a snot green idol a pus dripping idol They'll worship it at the foot of the mountain The towering landfill where you've brought them Or they'll bring it to your ceremonies They wave your banner in the air A colorful representation of the Beefeater Proud of their devotion Proud of their status as "The Chosen" Not necessarily Sure Of the WHYS or the WHEREFORES You just seemed to be worth the trouble Worth a laugh to watch you To see you falling down To hear your words of wisdom (True wise words they are, too) Slurred into gibberish You are their man Whose oracles remain silent Lost in a deep dream that swirls through your sleep-dizzy mind Whose glory and honor Fall down From your pulpit In the center of a room full of people 99% of whom see YOU Not as a profit Not as a beatnik Not as a poet Not as a sage Not as a seeker Not as an asgst ridden agnostic No idol No god 99% know exactly What you are