So your body is a temple...
Your yawn beckons a chasm
(No doubt the queen of darkest alleys)
And utters a sleepy spasm
From your lungs and pagan valleys
Where apathetic are the saints
Who worship what each idol paints
I have never been moved by any a sermon
Of second hand grace
And communion bourbon.
7 comments:
Genetics has a lot to do with how religious we are oddly enough.
I does serve a valuable social purpose however, and a valuable vice.
Hmm, I sort of lost you at the saints in her yawn, but I like the rhyme.
as the post above mine says, I think the rhyme in this is one is nice, its also fun to say in a serious tone. But thats just my neurotic opinion
hm... this isn't really a good poem. i don't know who maverick was trying to appeal to with this piece of crap.
I'm just kidding maverick I l*** you.
when I find you, doctor, there will be blood.....oh....there will be blood....metaphorically speaking, naturally.
as always.
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