Four square monks drive a Coupe de Ville
Through the vale, over the hill
To get to where the savings are,
They square their shoulders and point the car
They bang their heads when the radio blares
That song about the lady who bought the stairs
And the dandy in back swirls down the chrome handle
To cast weird sun on his pilgrim sandal
Where tokens once slurried to a buttercup Hajj
What now? O shimmering mercantile Alcatraz!
Mobius ministries fringe the haze
Of toothbrush choirs in a Yangtze glaze
Foaming in pollens of this lobotomized valley
Ever since Yankee Candle broke up Bee’s Alley
Where skanking confederates
Did trail natty satins, debt
Free, and Sanity herself
(Now a scent, top-shelf)
Administered to gutter pirate queens
Mini homecomings woven on the cosmic screen
And whispered in a turtle’s ear,
Kid monk you dream, it was the beer
You vowed to brew
Just like the thread will lose its screw
Just like the brain will shed its wrinkles,
Diverting shipwreck’s periwinkles
To be reborn in a lonely place,
Truth’s best conducted by an unclaimed face
/ 4-29-15
