Ying yang, you are and you know.
Your ways aren’t the stars
Just a dot on the infinite skies
Erased, as your god spits upon it.

Hoary your pale fortune stands as the
Drunken glass so empty so eventual.

To easy papa said cruel is sexy.
So why don’t you stay ingénue person,
As my heart still remains inhospitable.
Egog, egog oh egog
Juvenile such lips become.

Chicken little sometimes knows
What his talking about.
Lickin’ his wings, throwing bones up the clouds
As he waits for the great gig in the sky.

King, king… down the
Road turn the coming
Left go straight and turn
Left again… a motel stands your way.
The nails will come one with black flesh.
The wooden cross will taste like silver
It will carry you and on and on again
Till we reach and know
Conningsby Close.

Submitted: May 28, 2007

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