Raxed with guilt the gracious greed
Feeds nimble elbows that bend
For nothing but a well-cooked meal.
The saints are those with slings to steal.
Well mended am I for several stiff years,
But wearing cartilage like a peacock
I betray the root of my upturned nose.
The saints are those who show their bones.
Men construct to the second floor then
Balance in the middle naive beam dream
That they are the ones who struggle to lose.
The saints are those with holes in their shoes.
Incoherent confessions sink into concrete
And tears are the dinner of vegans grinding their teeth
For fake sausage links made of pâtè.
The saints are those who die everyday.
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