just three Victorian ghosts and an attacking
bladder after seasonal bedlam of bland music
drank in long lines for red cups to burn mouths
as wet as vigil candles.
Some love children as much as they do saviors.
Among worship songs, there’s an inedible core,
violent and unpleasant to dirty tongues.
So sing you own filthy songs,
never worry about the season:
If I were a beast, I wouldn't bow to kings.
If I were a shepherd, I’d carry lambs to slaughter.
If I were a wise man, I’d have something valuable
to give you other than poetry.