05-07-2021, 04:54 PM
(This post was last modified: 10-13-2021, 05:02 PM by RiverNotch.)
The Second Comin's a carrion bird circlin
high above yer head.
Step out o' the shade an' strain yer neck,
you'll see it's there: God never left.
The gyre enfolds you. Pestilence, war,
famine: yer breath knocked out
like you were trampled by horses, like you'd forgot
yer still standin with yer head bent back
an' the crow snatches out an eye
to the timeless tune o' Jesus Chariot
stuck in yer head. A big red rooster
slouches towards his city to be born:
yer blood its comb, yer cries its crows---
Lord, would my house grow legs and go!
high above yer head.
Step out o' the shade an' strain yer neck,
you'll see it's there: God never left.
The gyre enfolds you. Pestilence, war,
famine: yer breath knocked out
like you were trampled by horses, like you'd forgot
yer still standin with yer head bent back
an' the crow snatches out an eye
to the timeless tune o' Jesus Chariot
stuck in yer head. A big red rooster
slouches towards his city to be born:
yer blood its comb, yer cries its crows---
Lord, would my house grow legs and go!