Indifferent Morals

Upon the path
I came upon a wicker-man
Who tilted: north, south, east, west
Upon the air
He was stuck fast to the ground
Yet it did not keep him there
He held the sort of smile or frown
That a lack of feature might declare
Though he pointed in all directions
He could not tell which was where
As I argued with him heatedly
He smoked under the sun's harsh glare
With unholy delight the fire licked his bones
Until the pole was bare
I barely knew the wicker-man
But I watched him burn both with compassion
And without a care.