Deranged Choir

O the steeples and the choir,

Make one feel as if hung

From thin wire,

O the chandelier o'er the

Rotten wood,

Sounds sounding through

The hall.

From those who sing as

They could.

The lady in the steeple chair,

Likes not the young,

Who stare from a hidden chair,

When I was young / and the chandelier,

Both hanging above a singing choir.

Am I the one who should feel disdain,

I am the retch who is profane.

Ave Satanas says one,

In delightful anguish tone

Sense time was gone.

Ave Satanas says one,

The retch who is profane.

Come to our new life forsaken now,

O'er steeples to and fro in a row.

Dying are the young, who are to old.

If there is such as thing as heaven, it does not come from brunettes,

God is not your highness, as he stabs you with bayonets.

I shall live as I / who shall not ask why / as I wait for my wait / as I walk through the gate / as I walk on my own / beyond where cattle may roam / in stories about some deranged Jesus in divine Rome.

Am I alone in the world of darkness,

Beyond the light of some fictional God in his world.

As I rest right now,

Shall you beat me now, God and always,

On my brunette brow.

Songs are for the chosen few,

As one stands in the pew,

Watching deranged hymnal singers.

While alone the malcontent admires non-gingers,

Not in the pew.

I am fewer than few / as I watch the pew / as I admire others shoes / hearing deranged blues / from her and the few / as I hiss as a snake / as my life force takes no creed / as I sleep down and bleed / waiting for the chosen one's noble steed,

To stomp me to death.

And yet it happens not.

As I leave this world,

I take a joint, brush off my jeans.





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