Sunday Morning

Drunken tongues can curse the kings of young

mere boys of daylights reign

to override the prestige they preach in sober company

whilst drunken bones can bring to dance with contract in disguise

to disregard conscious being unbound to conscious mind

only to which append a tally for wake’s impending demise

whom that they greet in foreign realms, they conquered with drunken feet

callous to the territory who lay a blazed, as if the wind stormed in

while somber be lass whose sin soaked skin lay bare

as kings tip toe crown in hand,

unbeknown to such fair child who always fails to stir

then and only then with foolish backs turned against a foolish scene

fallen kings denounce a time line plea

enabling failure to repeat,

for how can man, not god, learn from wrongs of old

if he closes a door from here to there,

look forward and not dismiss the warns of which sober had once told