Anxious of the Herd

Dark between the muddy gate
I hear the candyman call,
To a sun-harvest black-sheet parade.
But near the ancient lamps,
Outcrops neither future,
Nor past.

Take me in your arms parade.
Let me pass those festive gray asphalt gates
And behold the neon entrance of your number's world,
Your ink-stained land of beauty, carnage and ass.
But who am I to Jester?
I once sat throwing peanuts at the birds to.