The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the

The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the
  smiling faces.
He met the gazes --- observed the spaces between the
  old men's cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred --- oblique
  suggestions --- and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters --- static-humming
  panel-beaters --- freshly day-glow'd factory cheaters 
  (salaried and collar-scrubbing).
He titillated men-of-action --- belly warming, hands
  still rubbing on the parts they never mention.
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating
  one-line jokers --- T.V. documentary makers
  (overfed and undertakers).
Sunday paper backgammon players --- family-scarred
  and women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage and he
  looked at all the friends he'd made.

The minstrel in the gallery looked down on the
  rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass - saw his face in
  everyone.