Who Judges The Judges? Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

To those who are so quick to judge
they often do not see their smudge
and deem themselves close to the greats
then walk around like heavyweights.

I say, put on my moccasins
and throw your own into the bins
then walk the road that I selected
respect the signs that were erected
and after many, endless moons
you'll come upon a town of ruins.

You will not know what all this means
and see a tower, one that leans
perhaps you open now your mouth,
when someone says, 'my man, go South.'

And suddenly, you find that you
should wear a certain type of shoe.
You now feel lost and scratch your beard
this mess is something you had feared.

And no one in that foreign land
will come and hold your shaky hand.
All talent is like silent thunder,
so much does concentrate Down Under.