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Poem

The calla lily ladies pay a dainty little toll 
to shade their face from beauty which will purify their soul. 
(all protestant their daughters - ambiguity is plain - 
unscented shapeless bodies with no luster to their mane) 

Belief is not conceit received within a holy name 
but licks with tricks to finger flick a bic to bigger flame 
which decimates the future of a church so prone to pride 
in search of resurrection since the congregation died. 

All present indiscretions and confessions labled sin 
will find in time backslidin' minds are slippin in again. 
Too late for fate to find a place where faith and hope await 
but somethin' in the wind again will land upon my plate. 

But old remorse can set a course as games are played too straight 
where beauty brought was never bought to be the brand new bait. 
So wait for fate to find a face to place inside the race 
for there is where the lion's share of mischief found disgrace.

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