The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the
  smiling faces.
  He met the gazes --- observed the spaces between the
  old men's cackle.
  He brewed a song of love and hatred --- oblique
  suggestions --- and he waited.
  He polarized the pumpkin-eaters --- static-humming
  panel-beaters --- freshly day-glow'd factory cheaters
  (salaried and collar-scrubbing).
  He titillated men-of-action --- belly warming, hands
  still rubbing on the parts they never mention.
  He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating
  one-line jokers --- T.V. documentary makers
  (overfed and undertakers).
  Sunday paper backgammon players --- family-scarred
  and women-haters.
  Then he called the band down to the stage and he
  looked at all the friends he'd made.
  
  The minstrel in the gallery looked down on the
  rabbit-run.
  And threw away his looking-glass - saw his face in
  everyone.