Sundays, dreamy wine to laze
With you, from holy drunken haze
No gods, no men, and their worship of wars
But you, breathing Brahman, assuaging sores
Nothing like their nonsense, the smart and silly
Just you, kissing Johnny’s lust for lips of poetry
Snub their news, be it the flawed or the flimsier
For you, telling the lores of the Lorelei’s courtier
Close their books, the mundane and the mystical
As you, hiding from words, know the inane in a fable
Mute their music, made with the magic of flutes or their flatulence
Since you, singing sighs of sirens, hear the song from hearts in silence
Hush the shams that stole my soul with licensed truths and trendy lies
Bless you, showing me, off the books and ballads, the devils men devise