Playing the Indian Card

Friday, June 10, 2016

The Song of the Paranoid Saint at Queen and Shaw

"The Madman" Goya

There is no thunder here, no open tomb;
No curtain torn, no tocsin blast of doom;
No call to mourn or hope;
Just Mad Tom, a devil down his throat.

And should a mountain shuffle into sight,
Or sun malinger at the doors of night;
Fix only on my particoloured coat;
On Raving Joe, a devil down his throat.

And should my hands and feet start running gore,
And should I die, then come to life once more;
It is yet a thing of no great note;
Just old Josh, wild spirits down his throat.

Just shuffling Jesus, ghost fires all about;
But heaven's light is hellfire inside out.
The lambs look down, and browse, and bleat by rote--
While scaling Calvary's spire requires a goat.
-- Stephen K. Roney

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