Gene Moutoux's Poetry
Betaking myself to Hyde Park one fine day,
three preachers I happened to hear.
With time on my hands and a curious mind,
to each of the three I drew near.
The first with harangue of unending invective
held dozens of folks in his spell.
Inexorably, without pity or shame,
he condemned all the sinners to hell.
With little regard for his manner or words,
I strolled to the next preacher’s box.
This self-acclaimed shepherd, soft-spoken and glib,
circled his prey like a fox.
He prefaced importunate grasps for our quid
with beloved words from the Psalms.
Illicit intentions concealed from the masses,
this man would get none of my alms.
Disgusted, I hastened to hear the third preacher,
whose hearers were no more than six.
He stammered and stuttered and jerked when he spoke,
a bundle of twitters and tics.
His idiosyncrasies made him more human,
and I started enjoying the scene.
He asked the hard questions, suggested some answers,
but with an incredulous mien,
Which hinted that questions are answered by questions,
with pain of uncertainty rife.
This is the preacher who captured my ear.
His approach—it has captured my life.
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