civil.

oh, those villagers are at it again
sharpening pitchforks, lighting torches
reading up on witches and monsters
and seeing them in every dark corner
turning a blind eye to reason and cool heads
welcoming the visceral cries shouted
from apple carts and soap boxes
how long this time, until they run out of
shadows to chase and turn on each other
burning the town and washing out the gutters with blood?

but fear not, once the spectacle is done
the magistrates are bound to appear
honor-bound to their antics
putting on a show
like fickle birds of paradise
dazzling with their plumage
less puppets than clowns
doing anything for applause
you’ll find no strings
but whispers abound from the behind the curtains
“Now leap, now dance, now kick, they’ll swoon”
and never one to leave while the audience is rapt
they acquiesce and gold is thrown
one for the clown, nine for the whisperers

and then, the coup de grâce
when the gathered crowd grows bored
when a slip, a fumble, a misstep is took
with a vengeance they drag from the stage
the clown in his pitiful makeup
is stoned or burned or hanged
or tarred and feathered, riding a rail
the torches and the pitchforks
make an appearance once again
and when the smoke has settled
and the bloodlust then subsides
the villagers turn to each other
and say, “Well, we must find another clown”