The Idol...

Dabbed with the splatters,
From nights that won't withdraw,
My garb, it is all in tatters,
Though darned for many a flaw.

And you, you stately bloke,
Attired in an exquisite cowl,
Had you no passions to stoke?
How could you never cop a foul?

As i walk, hosting a fight,
Clumsily tripping over my own feet,
About you, stood upright,
I wonder if our eyes will ever meet.

Yet, many have held your gaze,
While drifting away and back,
And wrote of the glorious days,
When you cut them some slack.

And so, despite what devotees coo,
You must have been human as can be,
And I have to look up to you,
For you wouldn't look down upon me.