No Room at the Inn
He read the Waste Land, searching for the fine print and making of it a guide for life. He enjoyed stories of wise men, and he looked out for them on every street corners He thought he might find meanings in the conversations of the temple women who seemed to have replaced the three kings, but he heard mere confusions and riot, obscene and dark as the shadows thrown by the nightlights.
Once, he followed a star for as long as he could, but it sped out of sight, disappeared over the rim of buildings and he never found a mythic inn, just a room of drunkards and moneylenders. There followed a year of bitter wangles with the Inland Revenue, which he lost.
Later he heard of satellites that raced the sun around the earth, and he figured the reality of his star.
One evening as he walked home, the rain dripping from his hair, and the end of his nose, he stepped over the stream that ran down the gutter. Beneath the arch of his legs, a card floated towards the drain. Finally, he saw a star, saw wise men and sheep - too late, his faith had dwindled and now he wallowed in the stink of the Black Friday, all his presents bought and wrapped without thought or feeling.
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this is not a rebel song
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