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THE JESTER

A riddle, then, my lords and ladies:
Where’s the poet in a deck of cards?
Here’s a hint: the poet is the one
who refuses to be classified,
wears not the red or black.
Have you guessed it?
He’s the joker,
sometimes called the fool,
the wild card who'll be
anything he pleases.

So picture me with bells on,
long pointy shoes,
striped satin pantaloons,
a shirt of checkered calico,
a hat that points in all directions,
and bells on every item
so I jingle when I move.
Don’t you know I’d look the fool,
turning heads,
drawing gasps of disbelief
and pointed fingers
--Did you see that guy?
I wonder what he’s advertising--
everywhere I go,
and making all the rich and proper folk,
all the stiff and dignified,
just cringe beneath their savoir-faire
each time they hear the music
that announces my arrival:
Jingaling!

A fool is what I’d be,
but don’t you dare to call me clown.
No slapstick floppy-shoed buffoon,
I’d be a jester from the courtly days,
that mocker of the courtly ways,
whose jokes and jibes were always granted royal immunity,
who spoke out with impunity,
whose wit alone dared say the thing
a king might need to hear.

It’s true; the lowly jester
in his motley suit and bells
was honored and respected,
for his foolish lack of guile
made it seem he could not help
but tell the truth.
Thus his insolence might keep the king
from getting too caught up
in self-importance,
or believing
all the flattery of courtiers.
The jester’s gentle mockery
reminded him of his humanity,
pricked his royal vanity,
and in the way that humor does,
helped him see his royal flaws.
The conscience of the king
went jingaling.

But times have changed,
the kings are gone.
The people with the money rule,
as any fool can tell you.
But with rulers everywhere,
pursued by mercenary courtiers,
trying to flatter all the dollars
from their deep, well-tailored pockets,
don’t we need our royal conscience
in his ill-assorted finery
and bells?
It seems to me that nowadays,
in times so cynical and gullible,
the poet is the only person
fool enough to dare
to speak the truth.

I'd love to go in motley
to the White House,
where an honest fool would be
the only kind that's not already there,
though I’m sure the Secret Service
wouldn’t let me near the place
while carrying a fully-loaded
ball-point pen
around a president
who in a war of wits
would be unarmed

But unarmed is how
we’ll need to be
to win this revolution.
The world may listen
if we make them laugh,
but afterwards,
the words they heard
may not seem so absurd,
and they’ll wonder,
and they'll ponder,
till they finally start to understand
that even though we never
said revolt,
the truth is that revolting
is the way the truth already is.

So let’s all dress in motley suits,
with bells from boots to crown,
and Sir George is not the only one
who’ll cringe to hear the sound of
"Jingaling!"