Help me take my hands from my hips some time
And let my flowered fingertips breathe
Because they carry a lot of weight
Like ‘you’re my baby.’
And that’s the shirt that you kind of like, that I always like and
You can’t wear it - or them – partiality always screws things up
But we can wear our modesty and our pride:
All buried in the valley of Hinnom.
A lot of the time, we’re hearers only
Deceiving ourselves
And hearers we are.
And tasters. And the cold, Shallow Dip.
To Us:
Lament!
And stop fortune-telling.
And be meek.
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