I'm afraid I'll side with the wild man,
with the red man paraded around in the Wild West Show,
his proud horseman skills now fit
for entertaining middle-aged lawyers
confiding their weepy grandiose
middle aged misery
to themselves in lit grandstands;
or with the Gallic chieftan
Vercingetorix paraded around Rome
after defeat, before his execution,
for the gathered crowd to heap
their bottled scorn upon;
with the once
poetic barman waiting on
the masses' haughty taste,
for wines jammy, fruity,
big and New World, and buttery
oaky Chardonnay where the list
and the cuisine is French.
Does the red man, the wild man,
the Gaul, teach some lesson,
spoken mildly,
of the older way of life,
as he pursues his new career,
a captive to the modern world
and its pointless way of doing things?