A man of gold, yet poor in soul,
Whose heart hath naught to grasp the whole.
No love for art, no ear for song,
Whose mind recoils from right and wrong.

A golden tie, a stiff applause,
He sat, bemused, without a cause.
The songs of sorrow brushed his coat,
He missed the point, he cleared his throat.

Beside him, smiles for magazine,
Not much was said, not much was seen.
The room grew tense, a bitter cheer,
Then boos arrived — sincere, not mere.

He scrolled his feed, he checked his time,
Confused by rhyme, unmoved by crime.
A bishop’s grace, a convict’s plea —
Too French, too poor, too unlike he.

And near the aisles in quiet style,
Some drags stood by to make it worthwhile.
With painted poise and silent might,
They stood — a protest wrapped in sight.

Not one would flinch, not one would flee,
Their silence louder than decree.
For those who claim, then strip away,
They wore the truth he dare not say.

He left ere yet the bows were cast,
Still blind to Cosette and Valjean’s past.
He took the stage, yet missed the plot —
The play went on; he saw it not.