For Lyndon
Beware the man whose acolytes all nod,
But never shake their heads, who live in thrall,
And scrape their knees when he strides into the hall,
Who sanctify the ground that he has trod.
He presumes to be a perfect man – a god!
His servants? He would obliterate them all
Before admitting that, yes, he too can fall
Like the rest of them, so finite, weak and flawed.
What man or god devours his own spawn
While mouthing words of love? He sells the young
With a vision of a great and glorious dawn,
Or the end of the world – then speaks of sacrifice.
He charms them with the sweetness of his tongue,
Then from them, with its edge, he cuts his price.
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