He stalks the glowing circle Seduces maids and hardened spinsters With one burnished face Masters an angry mob Intent upon his death With another Battles evil Fights cruel fates' clinging threads But behind the painted temples He sits alone in silent craft Wishing just once it were not a sham That the crowd might love him Not the painted face he wears That his hand could right a wrong Not a straw man meant to fail That the love in maiden's eyes Were not remembered from another's bed That the gentle caress was not Upon his lacquered head
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This work is Copyright (c) Mike Fletcher 2005