The minstrel in the gallery
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looked down upon the smiling faces.
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He met the gazes observed the spaces
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between the old men's cackle.
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He brewed a song of love and hatred,
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oblique suggestions and he waited.
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He polarized the pumpkin-eaters,
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static-humming panel-beaters,
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freshly day-glow'd factory cheaters
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(salaried and collar-scrubbing).
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He titillated men-of-action
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belly warming, hands still rubbing
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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
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family-scarred and women-haters.
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Then he called the band down to the stage
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and he looked at all the friends he'd made.
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The minstrel in the gallery
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looked down on the rabbit-run.
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And threw away his looking-glass -
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saw his face in everyone.
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Minstrel In The Gallery (Edited Version)
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| Jethro Tull |
