Soprano trills at dawn,
The gentle walk through the yearbook
And the people who are plotting to kill her,
And my scribbling in code that proves I'm a Christian
So should go back to hell where I belong ...
It's so pleasant to live this way
With the buds and butterflies winging it
Like angels bounding through the spring,
Selfish though it may seem.
The crazy-making show has taken respite
As the semblance of rationality has collapsed,
And the infantile marksman
Has walked it back to toddler ware
Staring from the carriage like the baby Jesus
Next to the one with her mother,
Skin and bones, mouth involuntarily open,
Taking it in like an interesting bus ride.
