Potts Wallace

Have you heard the trancing words
of the Mystic Bedouin?
Have you witnessed his wonders
that force men's thoughts to skew?
Such things we could believe...
If only we were faithful...
Do you believe such magic?
Do you think of him a fraud?

An arm that's bathed in blessing
from which he calls his thunder.
Casts an eye upon us;
he speaks forgotten words.
A breathless gasp that rings amidst
a crowd that's been devoured
by a man that wields a God-borne fist
and charges by each hour.

Said to bore from Galloway
but born from Marmouth soil,
a hermit sheltered by the day
who speaks and sings untethered.
Truest name of his to own
is known by those who do such wrongs.
But they grasp at strings and find
that he has moved along at ease.

Sly Potts Wallace, forward on
to find a few and willing hosts
to feed upon with might and fancy,
at last to show them the mystic lives.
His palest skin, his fetid core,
his grin that serves his wandering eye;
he turns from "home" and sets ablaze
a path of righteous indignation.

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