more often than not, a knightly surge
combs a pawn me,
especially after the stroke of midnight, when
hermetically sealed in my rookery,
where bats in the belfry
flap their wings at the speed
of sound times ten
thence, this king heads to his counting house
(which doubles asthma
Perkiomen Valley bishopric)
to economize on space,
especially during tax time
(as April fifteenth slowly approaches,
me heartbeat doth) quicken
though becalmed, when imbibing
idyllic, fantastic, and bucolic kingdom
Americana paintings courtesy, sans nomen
Percevel Rockwell, thus jitteriness pacified,
particularly speaking
on the telly phone with Ken
Burns, whose trademark documentaries,
particularly War between the States,
where even roosting hen
got into the frayed scrimmage vis a vis, even
chilly being egged on to surrender as Ben
a fit to this American
Civil War Yankee incarnate,
whose doodling word
ya probably don't give a hoot -Amen!
The price was thirty pieces of
silver
From the treasury of the Holy
temple
The contract for life, a deed in
blood
The Chief Priests and Elders
signatories.
The kiss of a friend, the betrayal of
a brother.
Piercing painfully than the dagger of
an enemy.
For the price of 30 pieces of silver.
The treasurer of the Son of Man,
The King of kings in earthen vessel
The lure of 30 pieces of silver
Of filthy lucre,
Ensnaring the soul deadened by
greed
So was the son of perdition bought
For a mere 30 pieces of silver.
That placed the noose over his
head.
Whose destiny was wreaked forever.
The Bishopric transferred to another;
All for filthy lucre.
30 pieces of silver
The worth of the Son of Man
Whose heavenly throne is arrayed in
precious stones,
Whose Kingdom streets are paved of
the purest of gold.
Oh my Lord and my God!!! Have
mercy!!!!