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This is a protracted ode in the rhythmic direction of atomic life--it's called: The Mystic Tavern
PART ONE:
The Bar Maids that adorn the tavern shimmer with flaxen and champagne,
Having the luminous hue of moonshine mane;
Indeed, it is swell to swallow my domestic ale there,
For they are buxom plush, erasing carnal despair;
Alas, I leave a big tip and talk real smooth,
Getting into their couth, hoping to gyrate and move
Within their foundation and countenance divine,
Doing them with stoic sublimity, not like snorting a snowman's line;
As a result, I am a dog yet plugged into the monstrous mire
Of damning the demonic devil and his thugs for hire,
Driving the beauty of benevolence into states of rage,
Forging the maxim of an incarcerating cave;
Thus, release the noose and quench the fire,
Knowing better Karma is preserving life higher
With the narcotic effects of home grown peace,
Safer than overdose, though besmirched by the police;
Hence, dodge the Fuzz with agile desire,
And keep fortified in home when you wanna grow higher--
All in all it's shit of a bat cave gone crazy,
Cleaning the feces with eyes gone hazy,
Hoping for serenity and the Lamb of Life
To thieve away the constant complaints and strife--
So thank you Christ for the stigmata bled clean--
You are the Ultimate Human/God machine . . .
Sincerely, Mark David King
