Weredog Tart (29)

   
   "Weredog Tart (29)"
  
Siria--her mother a cerebral astronomer;
Specifically, beyond Spinoza's Pantheism--no Bush League commoner;
Moreover, knowing that a Divine Justice System axiomatically exists,
Made her corporeal exodus, some might say, with a fool's blind bliss;
Nonetheless, nothing more dangerous than a fool for Christ,
As was Saint Francis--so adoring of Brother Wolf and totally iced--
It all reflects back on them, as justice goes,
For nothing outshines the Godhead--This in all colors, perpetually glows,
If sown on the fertility of eternal life,
Not swiftly scattered on the thorns of a promiscuous wife,
And while we all fall short of the Glory of God--
The purchase is merely a penny, costing a singular, honest nod.   

Weredog Tart (28)

   
   "Weredog Tart (28)"
   
Siria wended her somewhat wily way
To her room--so that she could devoutly meditate on the Rosary and further pray,
Knowing:  She had complete Absolution
Due to Corpus Christi and His loving institution;
Moreover, happy that Advent, after summer and autumn would be on Its Merry Way,
For Saint Nicholas of Myra and them bags of gold down the chimney would stay;
Next, Siria would give herself plenty of personal mirth and merry,
Showing the Virgin's Mirror of Justice to things so falsely scary.  

Weredog Tart (27)

   
   "Weredog Tart (27)"
   
   Lance was not at summer school, due to his Dad's funeral and such; moreover, Siria was again jeered and bullied, and even though a weredog now, she felt crappy and weak.  Not angry, just withered, like unto a wilting flower, or the true meaning of her name and reality of it all--a star-system, so bright, reminding of dogs being chased by malicious mailmen; alas, she went home to her Dad (Noah) in tears; next, the conversation began on the safety of an American home's sofa.

SIRIA
I hate my name Dad!  The kids are still calling me a terrorist, and I hate all the evil and violence in the world; however, I am guilty too.  And I wanna change my name to something normal, like Lucy, after Saint Lucy, her having saved her mother; then, not long ago, robbers stole her body or head or something.  Ugh, the world is so vile.  And the political climate.  Is Hillary a crook?  Is Trump like what the Prophet Daniel saw, the North driving the South out; next, the East gets involved?  SHIT DAD, I'm so freaked by everything!!!

NOAH
Well, the world does seem to be falling apart.  But keep your head up kiddo.  Lance seems like a nice friend--a swell Irish kid who is bruised himself.  You two will have a sublime synergy.  And it's only a month or so before the Steelers take to the turf.

SIRIA
But the freaking politics!  The fake religious people, those who haven't mortified their senses or revered God with fear.  And is He not the only one to fear?

NOAH
Yup.  So don't worry.  Just stay on His team.  King David slaying Goliath for bad-mouthing God is kinda a metaphor.  Men can kill evil giants, and Buffy can slay vampires and demons.  So, be tough, and put your faith in the Trinity.

SIRIA
That's it--I should change my name to Trinity.

NOAH
That me be a little weird too honey.

   Siria dropped her head and growled in despair.  

Weredog Tart (26)

   
   "Weredog Tart (26)"
   
Siria knew:
As a hot-dog weredog, she was puissantly potent, but not a cruel shrew;
Forsooth, she was fanged and ferocious,
Yet tame as a dame that guys did sweetly crush on and notice--
Erelong, she'd take the wheel
And pilot herself with Christ's wise appeal,
Though displayed regret for slaying a demon,
Praying for his spirit and body to reunite; specifically, have a soul born again, and smoothly even.  

Weredog Tart (25)

   
   "Weredog Tart (25)"
   
All was dandyism for Noah, him dressing in a shirt with a collar;
Next, Siria gave him a mellifluous shout and glorious holler,
For they were on their way to ancient Mass
Even though guitars and Protestantism had influenced since an approximate 16th Century sass,
And even Nietzsche in his Antichrist proclaimed he was no longer a German,
Disturbed by the wheels of something splintering into myriads of groups, such as Pee-wee Herman;
Regardless, for 1,600 years did the Catholics protect the Kingdom Divine,
A Vatican Library having all the secrets of verse and rhyme--
Them Romans before Saint Helena keeping every book, knowing the pages--them turning;
Thus, how is that history denied, yup--it is disturbing!
You don't thieve away the Holy Family;
You don't plant another tempting fig or apple tree;
Alas, corruption gets involved everywhere,
Even attempting to slay Saint Benedict, yet saved by a mystical raven's flight, so aware;
Still, Siria held no contempt,
Only wondering if she would get fleas from her shape-shifting events,
Being capable now, under any sliver of waning or waxing Moon--
Always able to generate the weredog boon.   

Firing Line with William F. Buckley Jr. "G. Gordon Liddy: An Enigma"

Weredog Tart (24)

   
   "Weredog Tart (24)"
   
   While Lance clumsily sauntered off to produce urination, and as a clean boy, probably would whiz on the mint-colored thing in the urinal, to fascinate himself by making his water turn pink or blue, Siria contemplated the supernatural essence of herself.  There had to be more out there.  And as John Donne mentioned:  "No man is an island, entire of itself."  Or something, for her summer school classes all seemed so crazy with everything going on.
   Regardless, she knew she was a mutt.  A weird creature.  Did she need a pack?  Canines thrive and are stronger with a pack.  But being an Omega would suck.
   But isolation?  Then she pondered Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder in Stir Crazy, where after locking Mr. Wilder in the dog house for a night or two, he said:  "Three more days, please, three more days."
   Yup, she was wired on weird, so much so that she figured she could handle being a lone wolf and golden retriever mix wending completely solo; next, Lance stumbled back into view, working on his button fly.