A pinko commie and a cop in your future
The nag of glory at your neck, an injunction
That curse a blessing, yes queen, the big other
No more belief in the christ or the universe
A minor terror, the mundane, the insipid
Eating the symptom, speaking tongues, bearing witness
At the foot of empty, I year for perfection
Some parasitic sorrow in my spirit
No loving master awaits me at the Shangri-La