The False Minister's Allegory - Prologue Poem by Andrew Benton

Prologue
Come hither, my friends, and gather round
upon this plot of hallowed market ground;
the site of Christ’s fury, and yet I’m told
a frequent of scholars and scribes of old,
who pillage and plunder the subtle crowd—
they’ll do well to listen, with hearts so proud.
I sit here before you a wizened bard
with life seeming long and mind seeming hard,
and yet I am really a monk by trade;
thank you, kind sir, but I cannot take aid.
My oath is of rags in the forlorn dust—
a small price indeed for the good Lord’s trust.
Instead of your coin, please lend me your ear—
a tale of penitence it will soon hear;
my yarn is the truth of my pastor friend
who met an untimely, if foretold, end.
His life should serve warning to all men free—
warning that good does not sin happily.
So now as the sun sets far in the west
and long-leaden eyes call us to take rest,
pray you, my fellows, take heed of my voice,
let not my friend’s vice become your own choice.
Though I’m just a monk in soiled, stained robe,
I have learned lessons around the wide globe;
Now as the sun’s fall prompts me to begin,
I teach on the horrid folly of sin.