No more than sawdust on the floor,
these songs of praise
this turning lathe
this shaving of humanity.
I wait to see what morning brings and what the new day has to say about these songs we sing.

Praising Kings,
all well enough but there is other stuff to do
important stuff
more than enough to make the praising of a King,seem
something more or nothing less than luxury.

And luxury is in short supply,
The Kings have taken it,
that’s why, and we,
the last knockings of a fractured society
still want to sing a song of praise.

In all my days I’ve never seen a King nor Queen who’d want to be
the last one knocking on the doors of this,
the wooden pegs that nail us shut within the cut off,if for, but of and because humanity has ceased to give a flying fig
it’s got to big for its own boots
left behind the roots that gave the feet of man
the hands to change,remodel,mould another master plan
and I am
reaching for the knotted rope to wind around my neck,I hope
you’ll sing a bloody song for me
a ballad would be praise indeed for us the ones we find in need
the deed is done
The King is dead
Long live the King echoes round the rope that swings around my swinging head
in the end
because it always was the end that lent me moments to despair of rotating silent,deathly pale and wondering, was this life fair
but here or there or anywhere you care to bring,
you sing
you praise,
ferment your days and build up hope but in effect you are the ones who swing upon the rope that chafes the skin
we never win
we always break down at the altar just before a mass is said
Long live the King who lived so long and now
The King is dead.
copyright © John Smallshaw all rights reserved

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