OH, to carry on with Sunday…in the campy hamlet.
A healthy respect too easy, an ill retort too ready to sublet.
Mothers in slipper clogs.
Pajama bottoms designed for autumn.
Undeclared churches looking to a hitch a ride.
Ferals scattering with the sound of sirens…
NO place left to hide.
A place needle-ful with pride.
There is a trick…said, the prophets in cloaks…
‘to guarding against self control.’
Painstaking so…when the guard left the gates wide open…
with rabbit down the hole!
Thus, a scattering of orphans, just sitting around the hut with an absentee ballot in hand…
And, a pocketful of luck!
Just a sleepy Sunday town of tarnished sitting ducks.