Ode To a Gargoyle

I pass you several times a week down at the Cheapside junction your name defines the job you do but you perform no function. No drainage from the upper roofs no demons are you scaring, the passers-by stream past with ninety-nine percent not caring. The occasional ghost walk party pause to check you out, inspecting the mossy run down shell of the old building you're protecting. Some folk may say that you're a waste of all the time you've been there but I've been inside and you outshine the architecture in there. An outcast among gargoyles, by the doorway, out of place maybe because the Mason gave you such a charming face. Spectator to the march of time, ignored though you may be, console yourself as you gaze down- you have a friend in me.