No one's between the speaker and listener,
Or is there? We appeal to the middle
No matter where we are, like a tracker
Returns to due north. It's far too brittle
Otherwise, for us. We won't hear of it
Until the visible pundits approve
And won't speak freely without a "love it!"
From our ham-handed fixer nearby, to prove
On terms acceptable to the naked
Expression of collective power, faked
Like a game of chance, cards on the table
With numbers victorious. A different voice,
Plangent and heavenly, still in its choice
Will wait, until we've finished such fables.
