The gypsy fortune teller has gone off her meds--
The drunken ambulance men
Would take her away if they could only stop laughing and find the friggin' doors.
Churches are no place for angels,
But a fine place for bones.
Oh look, Bo Peep,
Stop cutting yourself for five minutes and listen.
There is no astrology to this, and no sacraments.
Just a few plasters and some mutton stew.
Leave your crook here and we'll go down to the beach before it snows--
We'll steady each other as we pour the sand from our hearts,
So we at least don't have to do it alone;
We'll watch it blow away in sheets
(His woman kicked him out--
Him and his broken clock gospel,
Right twice a day
But still comforting to us black-faced and not-beautiful ones
Who, despite all the mud daubing, still go blind from scanning the horizon
For hopeful signs.)