BRUNK HOWARD


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praying almost there

Cracking whip on a sinking ship

With a slip knot for a promise.

Desultory dissolute, insistently insipid

Pass the Gethsemane olives.


The boys gathered round,

Threw their masks to the ground,

Dared the centurions to intervene.

Shutters clicked while haughty lips sipped

But ne'er a face could be seen.


Clouds rolled in from  graves' dust bin

With edges that did tear.

Every will a list of bills

And all praying almost there.


Ink and paper to reveal the fakers

Swirls and whorls abound.

Damaged goods in the neighborhood

But not a finger print could be found.


Justice prevail above jail

Saturday night going down.

Black lace trumps grace

In this inhuman race

With ne'er a soul to be found.


Clouds bled ice this side o' paradise

No armor for t' wear.

Each billfold made love t' cold

And all praying almost there.


Plane the tree or let it be

The difference is not to see.

The knave,  the slave

The cracked and the paved

All belong to thee.


Make your decision as you make the incision

But please kind sir solve it.

It must be quick for we're getting most sick

On this mount of olives.


Clouds left with capricious theft

That bespoke wanton care.

Forces aligned still unkind

And all praying almost there.