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The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the |
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Smiling faces. |
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He met the gazes --- observed the spaces between the |
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Old men's cackle. |
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He brewed a song of love and hatred --- oblique |
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Suggestions --- and he waited. |
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He polarized the pumpkin-eaters --- static-humming |
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Panel-beaters --- freshly day-glow'd factory cheaters |
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(salaried and collar-scrubbing). |
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He titillated men-of-action --- belly warming, hands |
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Still rubbing on the parts they never mention. |
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He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating |
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One-line jokers --- t.v. documentary makers |
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(overfed and undertakers). |
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Sunday paper backgammon players --- family-scarred |
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And women-haters. |
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Then he called the band down to the stage and he |
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Looked at all the friends he'd made. |
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The minstrel in the gallery looked down on the |
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Rabbit-run. |
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And threw away his looking-glass - saw his face in |
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Everyone. |