The sour taste of wine
Some false bread aged over time
And a quiet pastor of loyalty.
Crying babies of false misery
And the confusion of glass paintings
The colors of Jesus Christ raining.
I stretch myself out and open my mouth
Clicking my smooth Sunday's best boots around.
The quiet and harsh kneeling praise.
I hold a cross made of corn maise.
And my grand father hands me a mint.
But these thoughts just won't quit
On the bleeding holy man in front of me.