Ballad of the Three Old Black Men with White Asses

Three old black men were sitting in the corner pub

Watching racquetball on a huge television. I turned to my wife and questioned her,

"When did old black men start watching that game? not to mention their

"Hefeweisens & their strange manner

"Of singing along to 'Tiny Dancer?'"

She told me not to be racist, & all blood is ancient blood.

Your peccadilloes are showing--, as you ride into the sunset

On your albino donkeys. I'll forget your peccadilloes

If you'll forgive me what I've done to the rhythms in the easier Jazzes.

There's time for redheads to experience my prurience,

And time to fast & fence in your densest penance.

You have sinned against Warren Buffet's family, in ways you can't even know yet.

Three old black men were disembarking a U.F.O. wearing white hot pants,

I watched them from my home on a huge television, & turned to my wife & asked her,

If their menthol cigarettes make the shuttle go faster?

She told me there's no place for racists

In an age of face-lifts & space-ships,

And she reminded me that all grafted plants are fancy transplants.

Your peccadilloes are showing--, as you fly towards Uranus

Faster than light-speed on your albino space-donkeys. I'll forget your pecadilloes,

If you'll forgive the time I painted pink your daughter's pussy willows.

This planet is feeling a general malaise,

And in these times we turn to outerspace

To ignite our spirits--, you struggle, but you also have sinned in tiny ways most heinous.

Three old black men were hanging out in the gardens of Babylon--,

I am going home today in the narrow gospel way. Like an alternate life,

As they lay their harps down & lament upon demand, I comment to my wife,

"If their song would be so beautiful,

"If their lot were not so pitiful?"

She told me not to be racist, & all spawn is ancient spawn.

Your peccadilloes are showing--, & so are your designer boxers.

Let my tongue stick to roof of my mouth when I eat peanut butter sandwiches,

And I'll forget your pecadilloes if you let me scratch my last lost racist itches.

Gird up your loins & pull up your pants,

All grafted plants are fancy transplants.

You might as well disappear into the setting sun on your albino donkeys: we're at the mercies of God's reimbursers.

Emanation Prayer

(this poem is called "Ejaculation Prayer" in the book Five Prayers)

The sun & me, booty-hunters on a merry sea, & finally free,
No longer solitarily
Smoking on the Jolly Roger, pacing the fo'c's'le & surveying the expansive galaxy.
Together alone, with Henry Waxman as our sugary daddy,
Whale-riding carelessly,
Pale faces smiling gladly,
We're on a motherloving boat, sailing towards an infinite holiday.

The sun & me, booty-hunters on a merry sea, winner of hell's lotteries,
Which we spent all at once.
When he was an infant, his nurse thought his father wanted him signed up for infant pilates,
Now the sun's a pirate's apprentice, tennis on the poop deck, love letters in the furnace,
Victims of tasteless puns,
The seven seas' dreadful menace:
Now the sun's a dreadful awe-shocking uncircumcised terror, liberated as the houris.

The sun & me, booty-hunters on a merry sea, the new Jerusalem
Comes down wearily,
Norma Jean left behind in Damascus, like slaves in rhythm to the kettle-drum,
James Dean stoned to death by Thracians, & woship him that made the heavens, the earths, & the seas.
Not necessarily,
Stage seven, from births to disease,
The mansion is also a hospital & sanitarium, please pray we remembered our keys.

The sun & me, booty-hunters on a merry sea, boiling the five oceans,
Deforesting the coral,
What are you? a liquid dream, a cocktail, or one of Professor Snape's potions?
What are you? our human marriage is like a roofie slipped in Lake Baikal
With its own fecal moral.
What are you? I recall
That you were the Jonah with a peace-pipe blow-hole, I seem to recall.

The sun & me, booty-hunters on a merry sea, rest your goose nipples,
Children, & go to bed.
The sun & me, we believe in treasure, we believe our ship's wake is Jesus Christ's ripples.
We will eat insects. We will wear linen bonnets upon our heads.
And never departed,
With myrrh & incense,
Children, & dream of the future of money, sail to space from your beds.

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Dan Lafferty's Theology: The Asshole Earth

I'm still totally haunted by the book I read last week, Jon Krakauer's Under the Banner of Heaven. I don't want to give too much away, because this might be a book that every American should read. The central narrative is about the Lafferty brothers, all of whom started out as fairly normal Mormon boys who drifted into fundamentalism, culminating in some truly gruesome murders. The book does a nice job weaving in all the scandalous & rich history of the Mormon church with much of the other scandalous & rich contemporary Mormon history. So, there's a precedent in Mormonism (and, what, every other religion) to have certain murders & "removals" prophesied by God.

Krakauer has at the climax of the book a seriers of monologues by the murderer Dan Lafferty (again, without giving too much away, but the man sliced the head off of his infant neice!) In prison, Laffery has come to believe that he is Elijah, & here is some of his theology in his own words. "At a certain point Christ gathered all His Children around Him & announced:

"I want to have a party that's gonna last for a thousand years. You interested? You want to party with Me on this earth for a thousand years?"

And we said, "Hell, yeah!"

Se He said, "Okay, that's the good part. Here's the bad part: you can't have something for nothing. ... For six thousand years I'm gonna let the earth become hell before I turn it into heaven. And hell, by definition, is where the devil & his children are running shit. So what I'm gonna do is, I'm gonna let the devil populate the earth with all of his assholes, & then I'm gonna sprinkle you, My children, on the earth a few at a time. And every hour you spend on this hell-on-earth with the assholes, you're going to be building up credits for the Big Party. It's gonna take about six thousand years, but by then we'll have all the credits we'll need fo our party. And then I'll come, & we'll harvest the earth - basically, we'll remove all the assholes - & clear the dance floor for our one thousand-year party."

Christ told His Children, "I know life is fucking crazy, but I'm here to tell you there's a purpose behind it. We're working for the Kingdom of God. And the way we do that is we put in our time here. And every hour you put in here is building up credit for the Big Party. That's the promise. That's the covenant. It's going to be crazy down there for a while, but in the end, thru Elijah, I will come."

Since we're all here in hell-on-earth, where the devil & his children run everything that is organized, it makes sense that the children of the devil would trick us into worshipping their asshole god. But before the God of love makes the scene, it will be important somehow to help His children - the children of love - have their eyes opened to who this cool fucker is who will be coming to befriend them on the day known in the Bible as the "Great & Dreadful Day of the Lord" (great for His children; dreadful for the assholes) - which is also known in the parable of the wheat & tares as "the harvest".

It is prophesied that the "Great & Dreadful Day" will be when Christ sends His angels like reapers to gather out of His kingdom all those who are not His & kill them; & that's in part what I was foreshadowing when I took the lives of Brenda & Erica [Lafferty]. I know that might sounds a little gory or something, but it feels like the right interpretation to me. I don't think the angels in this prophecy are beings with wings that fly down from heaven, but more like what Joseph [Smith, Jr.] & Brigham [Young] called "avenging angels": men already living here on earth who will just be taking care of their Fathers' business like I was, once they learn who their Father is & have been properly instructed.

_________________________________________________________________

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S. Sandrigon - Prophecy and Doggerel 2009

Sacred Nuptials

Go, man, gather me some cherries,

Dried & sunburnt & gospel & outrageous,
Little husband wearing my rings,
For you I'll carry big things,
Your mother's love for you was contagious,
Alone in the woods with the centaurs & faeries.

The math doesn't add up at all,
But by the time he learns to count it,
He'll be thirty-three & crucified,
Omnipresent, he'll have to learn to hide,
The entirety of his parts, no great sum amounted,
But it was too pricey in the fall to rent the hall.

We'll get a nice place with a decent mortgage.
Humongously intimate will be my love for you--
Be part of an exclusive club,
With no gross sodomites or VapoRub,
Let us not dramatically reenact the Battle of Idaho,
Trapped like a crocopotamus trapped in a cage.

Follow this June star to some cave on the outskirt,
Far from the suburbs, follow the white light,
There was no sound of tree leaves,
The breathing still, the smallest please,
The mariachi had packed up their instruments & taken the night,
The father-of-the-bride standing holding his daughter's uneaten dessert.

Elizabeth stopped us on the road to Jasper,
And blessed my wife, & blessed the fruit of her womb,
This was news to me,
I kept driving toward the empty sea,
A cross will rise on the horizon of our sanatorium,
The gas pedal thru the floor, past the earth, & never spinning faster.


Come, husband, gather me fennel & columbines,
Rue it for many a different reason,
The strongest bonds have ended in divorce,
But our love will follow a sailor's course,
I will grow for you root vegetables for every season,
We'll hide in the Sierra Nevadas among the Jeffery Pines.

EMANCIPATION - New Shape-Note Anthem, with printable score & demo solo-quartet recording.

I was hoping to post this on election day, but the recording couldn't quite have happened yet. Due to the complexities of this shape-note anthem, the recording process was a bit trickier than anticipated, & in result I apologize for certain resulting sloppinesses. It's just a test demo to hear the harmonies! The text is from William Blake's AMERICA: A PROPHECY (1793), his epic illuminated poem about the American Revolution, in which the god Orc sings this intense hymn of freedom. I'll add more thoughts about this piece later, but in the meantime enjoy my attempt at singing all four parts with myself.

The morning comes, the night decays, the watchmen leave their stations;
The grave is burst, the spices shed, the linen wrapped up;
The bones of death, the cov'ring clay, the sinews shrunk & dry'd,
Reviving shake, inspiring move, breathing! awakening!
Spring like redeemed captives when their bonds & bars are burst.
Let the slave grinding at the mill run out into the field:
Let him look up into the heavens & laugh in the bright air;
Let the inchained soul shut up in darkness and in sighing,
Whose face has never seen a smile in thirty weary years,
Rise and look out; his chains are loose, his dungeon doors are open.
And let his wife and children return from the opressor's scourge.
They look behind at every step & believe it is a dream,
Singing, 'The Sun has left his blackness, & has found a fresher morning
And the fair Moon rejoices in the clear & cloudless night;
For Empire is no more, and now the Lion & Wolf shall cease.'

COMING SOON to WESTERN HARMONY & the WHITE HOUSE

La Niña

Listen to me, hobos, with your feet not with your ears:
The salvation train no longer goes thru Portland:
One beer-swilling infant caused war for two thousand years,
Like dried-up camel tears,
Next century's preachers will drop from your face, & be forever banned.

The winter is past due, the fine is tremendous,
My love is a dodecahedron upon a fractal mountain,
The prophetess' jaw is locked up, but perhaps she just has Tetanus,
A virgin except for her clitoris,
She does not know the silent futurity, eternal jail for the whisky fountain.

Fall like amber locks, your robe torn off like lust & descent:
The wind hears you partying with another man in Orange County.
This rotten paradise was never meant to be misspent,
I have forgotten to pay the rent,
Pulsing beneath her t-shirt are several answers, lost booty, lost bounty.

You have to come up before you go down on the earth.
Do you remember that nice man with weird hair who killed his monster baby?
She told him it wasn't the antichrist, just more trouble than it was worth:
The birth of a subversive reversal,
So they added an eighth lane to the flaming freeway, no fin whale will judge their infamy.

Hobos & tramps, you need to ask me more questions, I miss her,
We are sober in different ways, missing in America's décolletage.
Pillaging & taxing, & surging with grief, & raped by a dinosaur incisor,
None the wiser until I kiss her,
Your eardrums beating with these vibrations on hell's watch.

The rain is over - Are you paying attention, Miranda? - come ask her apes,
What to bring as a present for a child who will end materialism?
She told him this wasn't the incorporeal rapture, just a stain on the images of cityscapes,
Put those walking feet toward stamping grapes,
And help me celebrate our victory, the chiefest beloved in Folsom Prism.

Song of Defecation

America has named most of its daughters Emma or Emily,

My eldest daughter is riding into St Louis atop a thirty-foot-tall camel.
You have sinned against Warren Buffet's family:
To me, you a like a poop from the snakiest animal.

Repent! heroes & lovers! Mormons & Scientologists!
I am alive, our land is theocracy & sound-bites.
My daughter was famous for five minutes for her monster-slaying quests,
Now she lives naked on the streets with no bananas & no rights.

Lay down, we tire of championing the Third Amendment.
Sleep & dream of breasts & dream of the pope's topiaries.
There are still worms underneath Interstate Five, awaiting their return to their covenant.
The man in all red chokes & collapses at the pub, another of hope's canaries.

Here is my daughter again, never calling except when she's broke.
4,140 angels are fighting over one muttonchop, & writing my name on their foreheads,
The Sierra Nevadas erupt into a storm of purple smoke,
Cannibals & vegetarians are interpreting from the same text, the same lyrics with different chords.

Raspberries? So processed & distorted, no bear will touch them.
I called out a Democratic campaign manager to a duel of wits,
And the aggressive motherlover smashed me in the side of the head with a truncheon.
I find refuge in the valleys of my mistress, for hours I have hidden there in her cruel armpits.

Sing for me one of your forgotten State Songs, show me, I will listen.
We decided to fund my daughter's excavation of the Ashfall fossil bed.
I could sit here savoring these various sounds, but it's late & the light-rails glisten.
We made her free her archaeologist slaves, Jefferson's dichotomies were impossible to wed.

Speaking of nuptials, I bet it would only last six months,
And it only lasted three minutes - like moon over Kennewick -
Her perceptions were enlarged by a rapper exhaling sex blunts,
Many things have been lost inside her, including origami cranes & a candlestick.

Energy crises, flatulence or scatological humor, it's all on the table,
Infinity is proven, maundering about materialism,
He is a crimson savior in the drunk tank, his horse chained up in the south stable.
Terrific, they say, & bound like a mouth over a furious chasm.

You call me a mountebank, but I am not, I am real.
Where is the plastic surgeon for these celebrities?
My daughter hardly looks like herself anymore, covered in gravy & cornmeal.
I shot her ex-husband in the face with a razor gun: even pacifists like ourselves can occasionally let down our integrities.

She will never change her last name, but she has re-christened the night
Ten thousand times, hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets cannot,
But my love is for the future of money, & Pluto's flickering gaslight,
A morning spent in Tijuana beneath an agave plant, I remember the planet.

Wake up, come back, Paul Robeson! Your lowest note is the military's highest.
The wasted red-face zombie down below the floorboards stirs,
And his brain explodes, out of the county paradigm, a sexy cowboy antichrist,
All over North America, somehow not heeded, but one teetotaling prophet concurs.

She is dead in my arms, there is nothing we can do, I cannot even weep,
I argued for weeks with her biographer about plumbing the thumb.
I must be to the asphyxiated miners as a shepherd is to his lost sheep,
And send all of your Emmas & Emilys back up where they came from.

I'm Going Home

Farewell! my friends! my habitat can process no more guano,

Houris & Seraphim are burning rubber in Myanmar's forests,
And I don't care to stay here long.
The yardman in the dooryard, less of an apocalypse than a Clintonian tornado,
And Jesus Christ & Malcolm X are smiling & beating their chests,
And I don't care to stay here long.
Ride me & arise up, Christians: Dorothy is affirming your hopes, there is truth in what the middlemen don't know.


I failed in my ventures, the landlord is just waddling upstairs,
I am sober from my saliva to my bone marrow,
And I don't care to stay here long.
Television doctors are prescribing cures, the second star is lit with flares,
Be careful! the cats from El Camino Real to San Pablo Avenue are rabid & feral,
And I don't care to stay here long.
Hide me till I'm hidden in heaven! I trust that the Saint's Justice will provide me with a decent barrister, I'm ready to go.


Please purge me of bestial instincts, even the ones involving partisan politics,
Like when the Minister of the Exchequer was found with a herd of bachelor impala,
And I don't care to stay here long.
Urgency is required, the sorority girls have exchanged bunkbeds with the lunatics,
The suicide eucalyptus trees are the only thing the Koalas have adapted to swallow,
And I don't care to stay here long.
So Columbus was only guilty of genocide, I deride no lower caste for their diseases, where he is become leaden popcorn at the greatest show.


I tried & tried, but computer-generated monsters are forming a mob,
Screaming with torches outside every wall of my mansion,
And I don't care to stay here long.
I love Marion Davies, I will defend her honor until the newspapers throb,
Silly string, my pet, has made this colony vulnerable to Southern Inuit Expansion,
And I don't care to stay here long.
Cherubic legions are my bodyguards, my home is thru the rim of Uranus, I am going, I am going where I won't need my mind.


Do you hear the music that my mother heard in Nineteen-Forty-Five?
The same recording with the same hornets with cornets is playing,
And I don't care to stay here long.
Touchdown!? It's easy to get worked up & stressed out about being too alive,
I look forward to dancing with Sun Ra & men of every color & swaying & praying,
And I don't care to stay here long.
Turn down that radio, a fence has been drawn around each song, stones & rocks of wrath, too cruel to be some kind.


Enkidu's priestess-harlot can hold my hair back, & the seamen are seasick,
Toe-tapping menaces are invading our privacy,
And I don't care to stay here long.
What are the consequences? Between frozen peas & lunar monsoons, if geodesic,
I reckon, if you count illegitimates, I have no children to commit intellectual piracy,
And I don't care to stay here long.
Coats of feathers rot too fast, butterfly wings are too too transient, I will find a way to fly with iron & the ocean will make me blind.


Berate me from four sides with contradicting advice about parenting,
My second-born is transsexual, but it is not a failure of corporate identity,
And I don't care to stay here long.
Loosen your belts, the high-fructose white grape juice concentrate is fermenting,
Eventually the sense pillow will explode, my preacher will explain & pity,
And I don't care to stay here long.
The are crumbs on the dessert plate, the bill has been settled, the waitress has been tipped thirty percent, the taxi is waiting outside.


Are there answers in the unbarred spiral galaxy? I'm not concerned with just the meaning of life,
Scotsmen & espionage, I feel for all these various things with needy attachment,
And I don't care to stay here long.
Don't hesitate to sodomize on my behalf, I've long since swapped my favorite wife,
And of egg-laying mammals & of echidna, I hold no grudges about design or millenniums misspent,
And I don't care to stay here long.
When we were carpooling up to Marin County, lovely ladies of the morning, it was good to decrease the traffic by one car, I am in agony & ecstasy to share your ride.


There is mold on my heinie, spores in my lungs, funny guys dittying ditties at the public house,
Mastering her domain, she took to the precipice with vigor befitting a presidential candidate,
And I don't care to stay here long.
Where are the Vanderbilts & Gateses & Rockefellers & Carnegies & Buffets when you need them the most?
They're playing hold-'em in the press box with their omnipotent creator, but I'll be riding camels with Fate,
And I don't care to stay here long.
Lerner & Lowe composed my whole hymnody of redemption, and altho I'd never use the word "chaos" in a long poem, I'll report & you decide.


Pop the champagne cork at the three-quarter mark, the resolution on the snakiest limb,
And Lincoln may be shot dead, but my speech-writer is no Democrat,
And I don't care to stay here long.
And Mizraim begat Ludim, and Anamim, and Lehabim, and Naphtuhim,
But I begot rhythm neither Jew nor Muslim can shake a stuffed puppy at!
And I don't care to stay here long.
Are there reasons to prophesize to America, beyond what remains of the identical plains, past poor frozen Saskatchewan, with or without Germans in rented Winnebagos?


Angels, angels, I hear you escaping from where I wish to escape to,
Let's shout out to our people, & Charles Mason & Jeremiah Dixon,
And I don't care to stay here long.
From Cape Codpiece towards the Pacific Theater, the girl is drowning in dew,
No longer is it necessary, necessity or sex therapy, I'm out of the quicksand,
And I don't care to stay here long.
Noise, earthquakes, & tiny children lost at the circus, my younger brother is feeling her boobs & imagining them larger, I am feeling the earth & imagining myself where the day goes.


It's important to have ambition, a cool mission to pursue,
From grief & woe, from yesterday, from Eritrea, my soul shall fly,
And I don't care to stay here long.
I recommend to my proselytes to keep repeating what you say & do,
And one day you also will be remembered, & be as famous as the day I die,
And I don't care to stay here long.
Right up around the fake horizon, way up beneath the judgment, the universe at universal room temperature, every color smushed into a huge gray, like the death of play-dough, for I don't care to stay here long.

Rhythm of the Circus

When our caravan takes to the interstate, I remind my children that there are millions of trucks in Ethiopia starving.
I am the most proud to introduce,
The summer is coming on slower every year,
Now that we've settled the lawsuit about pinhead abuse,
I expect each cheer to bring to Mademoiselle Coyote a tear.
There are three rings around the furthest planet, our drunk journalist's fetus.
The human cannonball refuses to steal bread even when her daughters are lost in the timing.
Louis Moreau Gottschalk has been kissed
In front of his sixteen pianos by Misses Margaret Thatcher;
You know, I used to date an aerialist,
So, where are the safety nets of our nation to catch her?
And the bass-baritone ringmaster, who knows of no better way to cheat us,
Like he cheats this circus, than to campaign for elephant rights on the back of his omnibus.

Guadalajara! Jalisco! Mariachi! How I yearn for the days of fermenting agave & the girls, skinny with large eyes!
There is murmuring of a rebellion,
The antipodist has been armed with a Kalashnikov,
The carnies are in caves in the hills eating marinated scallion,
The riot police have been choreographed by Mikhail Whatshisname.
The strangest rumor on the wrath vine is about Mabel's supposed husbandry of large catfish.
And when it was discovered that Fucík the Gladiator was copyrighted, the band had to improvise.
With my ukulele, I step out on the rope,
And ululate for all Sacramento to heed,
My balanced prophecy is part hip-hop & part artichoke,
I miss her, but I have several hundred poodles to feed.
And the financial executives, who are drinking scotch at the Hooter's in Cavendish,
Like they drink this circus, are reflecting on a consolidation of televised daytime news which would foreclose on those nouveau Swedish.

The fleas have gotten into the knife thrower's colon, like the yeast sideshow in my inner-refrigerator.
Alice had never seen so many clowns
Without make-up when she fell off the caboose;
By late September, we'd been to all the meretricious towns,
And Alice was hand-feeding me rotten fig juice.
We will end this show when you find a better one. The bearded lady is shaving her legs.
I'm against walls & Jenny Ruth's against cages. China & Russia are rapidly approaching by freighter.
When is the last time you visited your grandmother?
Her retirement community has been infected by contract bridge.
I want to amaze your sensations like no other,
The strongmen & midgets are waiting just over the next ridge,
And the audience, who can't see your mistakes if you can't see their mistakes,
Like they can't see this circus, are at home arguing about whose turn it was to buy eggs.

Alternate Lyrics;

Or, Alternate Lyrics to the National Epic

What is music without duration or velocity?
Whatever it is, I'm not going to squander it,
I'm going to go see my Lord.
He has bamboozled the college into electing a corrupt mediocrity,
And only one radio host refuses to ponder it,
But I'm going to go see my Lord.
I've been given oversight of the gates of the house, with ancient wine in a brown paper bag as my inner-sentinel.

This is good news, the toxic stream in the lowlands
Has been rerouted thru the oligarch's estate,
And I'm going to go see my Lord.
I remember my mother on the playground humming showtunes,
Oh, but she was really ruminating about that first televised debate,
So I'm going to go see my Lord.
Where has the bandstand fallen, where have the blue veins of our county been pecked open by the eagle!

I had previously attempted to be promoted in the Entertainment Industry,
But Orson Welles was impressed by talents more gastronomic than mine,
So I'm going to go see my Lord.
These policies on the horizon of mercy - what does that mean again? - are key
To unlocking our anxieties about locust plagues & famine & 21st Century moonshine,
And I'm going to go see my Lord.
Welles had drunk a pint of the stuff a day around the last turn of the millennium, & my song barely sharpens the pencil.

Do you recall the year when I experimented pretty seriously with delphinic fetishes?
I've long given that up, my liver just couldn't stomach the bickering,
I'm going to go see my Lord.
Love has paved our highways with seasonal salads & typical Thai dishes,
More war-car-bar-jars have left the furthest stars flickering,
So I'm going to go see my Lord.
The border of Alaska creeped North to Jerusalem thru the Evil Empire, & compassed the corner of the sea southward.

A flurry of civic conflict ignites the nights!
I shan't be discouraged! He knows he can find me singing at the corner pub,
I'm going to go see my Lord.
Fireworks & confetti bring grandmothers to the streets
Every Sunday to celebrate the Revolution - there's the rub,
I'm going to go see my Lord.
The despot was campaigning in Vegas, & the paparazzi found him curled up twixt grimy poker sheets with a mini-hermaphroditic mouth-whore.

Iowa is desolate, only corn can grow there;
Fennel & Caesar's Amanita are running rampant up Henry Miller's coast,
But I'm going to go see my Lord.
My younger sister has always had a crush on the Rev. Marxie Joe Caulahausawatapare,
Yes, ole Marxie doesn't know what he's missing, he will die a loveless piece of burnt toast,
But I'm going to go see my Lord.
What will you do in that solemn day, America, when we are rejoicing our slow food feast, & you are still starving for more?

A green electrical storm at the end of fog,
Hailing bastards, & birds flying a teleologic circle,
So I'm going to go see my Lord.
Out of this myth steps a leader named Kellogg,
Even I have eaten a few silly diets in the days of turquoise & opal,
Now I'm going to go see my Lord.
The politics of waste management, amongst other side ventures of the municipality, are clogging the sewers! Please abandon non-vital projects!

I composed a lullaby for the godfather in my books,
There was no audience at the opera house to listen to no Forró Orchester,
So I'm going to go see my Lord.
They say that the poet watches movies while the chef cooks,
But All-In-One's bard lifted half his wit from "The Walrus & the Carpenter",
And I'm going to go see my Lord.
An angry tenor bears a letter full of mischief & cross-dressing, it would make good theater if any playwrights remained who could rhyme dialects.

That virgin sister of mine remembers when I tried to fall to my knees & prostrate,
She kicked me when I was down, & I kissed her face &, thanking her,
I'm going to go see my Lord.
Most readers think it's the devil who's around every corner, but wait!
The line forms on the right, & if she's the devil then who's spanking her?
I'm going to go see my Lord.
Down into the coal mine your second grade teacher descends with her martini in one hand & the Brady Bill in her other, where are the students she protects?

I have sired a son in Fifty-Seven of California's Counties, all except Stockton,
They wouldn't let me in, they saw I had no talents,
So I'm going to go see my Lord.
This sacred soil remains breathless & the migrant workers have not been clocked in,
Let us eat lettuces & pontificate, every cinema is ultimately in balance,
And I'm going to go see my Lord.
Wind the golden string onto its ball, Ye Episcopalians of the World, your synthetic harp has struck my favorite chord.

The volcanoes have been silenced, & Friedrich Weyerhäuser
Has clear-cut the forests around my heart,
So I'm going to go see my Lord.
Beware the spherical library: its every word is poison lard!
I've sent a press release to the U.N., with enlightenment & nirvana on a pie chart,
Now I'm going to go see my Lord.
No, honey, you can't keep the socks you find by the side of the onramp, middle management's team building workshop was just far too horrid.

Awake! Throw off the pillows of dementia!
I hit my ten thousandth homerun, in Lightyear Shrew's park,
I'm going to go see my Lord.
Plato's bats resound the Batsongs of the Spheres, the Music of Minutia!
Unbuckle your whipping belts! Extinguish your Florescent Blacklight Spark!
I'm going to go see my Lord.
And I will repose upon the couches of Jesus Christ our Lord Savior, a grail of dandelion wine in the right hand of God Almighty My Lord,
And the peaceniks will reign, where gold once did.