The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the smiling faces. He met the gazes observed the spaces between the old men's cackle. He brewed a song of love and hatred, oblique suggestions and he waited. He polarized the pumpkin-eaters, static-humming panel-beaters, freshly day-glow'd factory cheaters (salaried and collar-scrubbing.) He titillated men-of-action belly warming, hands still rubbing on the parts they never mention. He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating, one-line jokers, TV documentary makers (overfed and undertakers.) Sunday paper backgammon players family-scarred and women-haters. Then he called the band down to the stage and he looked at all the friends he'd made. The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the smiling faces. He met the gazes...