Into the grand old palacestepped the great man of his people,chosen by them and Godto dig them out of their deep hole.And soon he set to workremaking the palace as he likedand had for him a portrait madecarved from white marble with a spike.The statue was well made.It showed him, flute raised to his lips,playing a honeyed, hollow tune.The pipe looks gold? No — orange rust drips.The statue took prime placein the palace he'd remadewith all the gold he’d taken fromthe people he chose not to save.Too late. He's spiked the door,this messiah of ill repute.He sits, arms folded, in his oval roomand the mad piper plays his flute.
