the judges sit on their thrones
and cast the first stones
at the clowns and the jesters,
the homeless, the helpless,
the motherless, childless,
fatherless, and the wandering
minstrels who put on
the shows.
judging their antics,
their tactics,
addictions and words, even
damning their very breath,
waving them off as nothing
but a plague and a curse.
if only they’d ask them what
keeps them alive, oh the judges,
they may be surprised.
it’s basically love
that runs through their blood,
music and memories along
with the sorrow and drugs.
meanwhile,
the judges keep casting stones
because they don’t understand
what’s missing in themselves
and their own.
even Keith Richards
knows
it’s basically love.
