PROSE THE LORD

Like laying in barrel of candied apples,
Then realizing you do not have teeth.
And dancing the back yard with only broom handle,
while pretending it's really a shiek.
Fiddle de dee and fiddle de da,
Prosing the lord with your word.
Roman young candles and hurling used paper,
Poet tree few could afford.
Baying at blood spoken use pen as the sword,
Slicing your victims in two.
Dragons breath vapours spitting ill wind,
The masses look to platform of you.
Spew forth your wishes wearing peaked hat,
Three monkey's feel sensless all facets are cracked.
Whenever your choosing between love and a lie,
Down on the water the river's run dry.
And Mary finds Joseph while skipping to work,
Immaculate conception is all that it's worth.
Down with garden furniture,
And down with garden beans.
Fire burns grassy perameter,
And eagle takes the prey as it screams.
(c) Copyright. Robyn Whittaker. 2007.