Could it be the lingering souls
that will not go into the light...

She looks like a nun in habit clothed
far from the mortal sins often loathed...

The moon yawns
before dawn...

The curtain drawn
in front of clouds...

There once was a turd put to the test
who stunk poetically at his best...

So many images I'd reverse
such as a would be nurse in a hearse...

The sun rises
then it will set...

Some of my memories are good
of cutting and stock piling wood...

The shepherds in the song moved on
after the King left the manger...

I have heard growing older makes you bolder,
growing closer to the reaper everyday...

Behind every wound is a story,
whether remembered with shame or glory...

Splicing genes and splitting hairs
over who are Fathers' heirs...