One never wears out the welcome of the Heathen
With all the goods one gathers in prepossession
For they’re shaded here beneath the Heathen sun
We take hardily to hoarding as pirates take to rum
In all the indexes of the Heathen glossolalia
Something heavenly portends in the shape of a labia
Heaving downward to swallow up what ails you
Amidst the brick and mortar of ailing Astoria
The old hag pushes thirty cats hither and yon
In a Safeway cart with four wheels minus one
On her bomber jacket the insignia emblazoned
Off t’ward the town where her ghost's now stationed;
Suppressed somnolent in the biology of madness
Is a crescent wrench and set of phosphorus matches.
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