The people of the Palaces,
Sprinkle the toppings of their favor,
Onto the heads of the few.
To banish like a Pilgrim,
Or a quartet or their muses;
Knee purple, of grace and blue.
The Holy Masses are vanished,
As old money out sperms the new
And the reading ring of spinsters,
Only once knew what to do.

This is tradition. It is against all Will

© 2019 Christopher Thompson. All rights reserved.

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