A poet friend of mine wants to publish a poem, written by a colleague of his, who has passed away, recently, as a tribute to him.
they followed the leader into the mountainssat at his feet in a Swiss canton as they decayed like rotting fish
and he looked at themand said: turn off the ventriloquist's voice flush out the snakeoil in the blood your bible your gita your gems your guns your flags your death
and at night they went to the nite clubs gobbling and soakingup the sudswhile that thingbetween the legsbecame more urgentthey dished up the cold turkeyof what he had said and nobody felt too good nobody felt
so they took the train the limousine the rucksackand went back home
next yearthey followed him to Indiaand again he looked at themand said: follow no leader
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