Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Working In the Temple

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Cyclops 317

The daughter of justice eats hair for breakfast
The law becomes a deceased infant and we sing
A scandalous lament for the tribe of unsound rightness
The mind will dismiss such thoughts that swore to keep
A solemn hour

And we of the bar with the name of the rose
shackle the foot yet ponder the king of the street
He is truly well and delivers us to the goddess of the skies
We conjure the air and dare to kiss her, the wife of god
As she is both judge and jury she condemns us to our fate

Still, our deliverance is at hand.

1 comment:

Richard Ewing said...

Love the composition on "obituary drawing" feels slightly Goya meets Degas.