Speak not in victims' rhythms.
Hear not the liars' lure.
You are a son of Abraham;
no less, no Holy More.
To tell it on the mountain
wastes air where it's most thin.
Go sing it in the valleys
where the meek are soaked in gin.
All elbows need some skinning.
Don't waste time rubbing saints.
They're hard to find and hard to please
and paint life what it ain't.
A man knelt here, repenting
for a life's worth of remorse.
He rose rejuvenated
and rode out on the horse
that'd brushed him off a few times
on branches growing low.
Not all reduced to crawling
learn what seeds to sow
in the desert where arroyos
promise nothing of a stream
and beautiful mirages
have eyes and teeth that gleam.
It's not so bad, the Hell we make.
The danger's in the nest
of iniquities we foster
when we settle like the rest
for anything that's warm and wet
and listens when we weep.
Some searched the dust for forty years.
Thank God the wine here's cheap.
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