Quasar Wut-wut
Little Crimes
The rhymes in the trees
Are old and diseased,
But, oh, they sound so pretty to me.
The children wait in line
With jars of alkaline
To place at the feet of the Glorious Spine.
All the little crimes
That brighten their lives
Made them dance
Like widows against
An iridescent sky
Where the oceans collide
And shower the land
With fire again
The minions of the wind
Cough and spin,
Rattle the cages of the invalids.
The convalescing rhymes
Embalm their own minds
And take to the waves of an infinite sea.
All the little crimes that brighten their lives
Made them dance like widows against
An iridescent sky where the oceans collide
And shower the land with fire again.
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