Who but the artist, the fascist, the saint, and the guru wrap themselves in innocence most fully, which then pulls on us most fantastically?

The artist facing reality creatively and openly,

Asking dreamily what can change for better future,

Bearing into life.

The fascist clinging brutally to their mythical history,

Demanding change to sedate their insecurities,

Rolling unto death.

The saint calling communal purity to higher order,

Choir stringed enabling, truth-bite emboldening,

Playing to tune.

And the guru witty calling their stinging mocking jeers,

Exercising new direction, growing within fertile rot,

Guiding by reaction.