See that fool, the hairy one in tattered clothes,
the lunatic who looks as if his brain’s on fire?
His market stall, fly-blown, and in the sun,
is by that woman who reads futures in palms.
We were boyhood friends, but heaven knows,
even then his prophecy was bleak and dire.
A windbag for sure, but he’s well received
as a true voice of the inscrutable and divine.
The priest now says he’s been deceived—
his utterances have crossed the line.
The priest’s boys roughed him up, for fun
they said—bearded him and took his alms.
I told him, Brother, even though you’re blind
and a prophet, bear those priests in mind.