A family, church, perhaps battalion with a battle plan,
History has proven success through a constant,
the strong leading Front Man.
A squad patrolling in the jungle or the sand,
The sergeant on the street,
Or the lead singer of a band.
This person has no gender, their color does not matter,
A soft tongue yet careful ear,
Measuring what is heard through the jeers and the chatter.
Standing in the front, yet among those they appear to lead,
Hard, compassionate, yet fair,
Accounting for all, ensuring every need.
Defining those around them, speaking for the mass,
The best of what is around,
Polished like fine silver, transparent as glass.
The Front Man must know that they simply represent,
all that surround them,
No matter the scratches on the surface, a tear or dent.
Walking softly yet hidden beneath, a reluctant hammer,
Good, bad, or indifferent,
A buffer from hell given, recipients of inadvertent glamour.
How did they get there, are they volunteers?
Chosen by fate, life, or other means,
Suffering the boos and the relishing the cheers.
Be it a soldier, cop, or nurse, sometimes even a music fan,
Willingly or not are defined,
by the words and actions of the person they call their Front Man.