The meeter and greeter
whose patter gets sweeter
whilst extending a sheltering arm,
to the nubile doe-eyed self incompleter
he’s like daddy minus the charm.
The halfwitted trojan horse clown
scribbles recklessly getting it down,
and though the words in his head
have already been said
he’s convinced he’s the new Ezra Pound.
The political ranters
finger their chanters
while reeling the dancers a tune,
the revellers will tap and skip to their crap
as if tides to a dictating moon.
The front line reporter the dutiful scribe
no opinion his own behind others he’ll hide,
he’ll travel the length and breadth of the land
making notes on events
he can’t understand.
The crab like page crawler
safe under his rock
awaiting the low hanging fruit,
skitters cross pages in clumsy veiled rages
his default much less than astute.
The cast out outsider
scrawls drunkenly silent
his passivity strangled, choked into violence,
he’s lost all his rhythm he’s radicalised
Joyfully driven to be so despised.
© Wolfgar 2019
Notes from life 
David,
Now that is what I call an exorcism!
All the best,
D
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Thanks Devon, there is a specific character memorialised in each verse. For posterity really to remind me (as if I need reminding) that many people are simply c—-. Oh well.
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This brings to mind one mutually acquainted fellow who asked simply: “what would you have us do?” There is no answer to that but the truth as you have eloquently, scarifyingly described. Uncomfortable and entertaining at the same time. I get it.
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My response to that particular buffoon would have been to suggest they use their imagination to find a solution beneficial to all, but as we know some people suffer from a severe lack of imagination.
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I guess I’m the crab like page crawler.
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