Jailhouse rock: A poem 

At the tableland uphill where the gods sit 

watching collaterally as the hands shift 

The moments of dark gold in time’s sift 

The theatre is a parade for fools, with no gifts 

The insignia are in the pockets of those who know 

Emblems are locked in chests that they never show 

One can wish to leave, but there is a shut door 

And if you’ve had enough, they’ll be asking for more 

The game is on, the music plays, one simply has to dance 

The sun hails, the moon regales, nothing is chance 

Gethsemane is a graveyard with four arms 

You can be taken to be nailed, without any qualms 

The sun is a bright shell, but the dark one doesn’t tell 

The moon crab-crawls overhead, but some to Sam are wed 

And you can’t run for cover, they want to see you walk 

For all your innocent talk, this is all jailhouse rock