HELLS' GATE
I drink water
From a decanter of crystal made.
Fathom the scarcity of good.
And consider the chauvinism
Of those that are.
Amit the great.
Born in a plate.
Near a Kings'
Toilet Gate.
In a magnolia room I look
Outside at the shimmering garden
Where it is raining.
Poverty stole the smiles off those I see.
I see them sitting on the garden bench, near the pond.
Sittin' on the dock of the bay.
They get down on their knees.
And they look yonder to land up there.
Trickling water streaming on the skins.
Clear and sound.
They let the raindrops enter the mouth.
And drink to God's glorious flesh.
Some might say,
Friday follows the end of the end of Thursday.
Might say.
Say to themselves.
They heat up from the drops of rain.
Those who chuckle at the noise of wind.
Who tango on a ripped dance floor.
Some might.
Those.
Those.
Those that are great.
Born in a plate.
Near a Kings'
Toilet gate.
Feel wonderful and phenomenal.
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