Run along the good gestations
Like the swarming bees in the sun
Can be the songs of elation
That was never meant to be sung
By a hand under frustration
Candy or currant bun
Give it a taste but not to be savored
Before they make me run
Draw out the fiscal plague
Press into material form
If you see those blind opinions
Do what's due, then outperform
A future-bound vexation
Deviancy from the norm
Cynical pinnacle wagon
To death until it's born
Come before the crystal lash
Before the critters come
Before the dead moon rises
Before a lowered thumb
Before the beating of the drum
Before our time, we'll see
Before our Lord returns
Coming off the execution tree
Scratched out a doggerel verse or two
And walking so damn tall
Holy ghost, seven-mile post
Penitence brought down to a crawl
Scourged and stripped in Roman fashion
Redemptive death it is the passion
Sanhedrin bed tomb inspection sizing
With a cold shine of a dead moon Rising
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem