Form and Substance (Capricorn)

It was an off'ring to the King of Kings,

To the one God who is standards and rules,

Who gives it all away, who wears gold rings,

Who lives inside us all, who suffers fools.


Put less grandly, it was my tenure piece,

Written before the rise of CLS,

My gift of gold, frankincense, myrrh, and grease,

To an immanent God I mostly bless.


I think Sartre's waiter is pretty much fine,

Likewise the teller Peter worried o'er,

We play with God in ways mostly condign,

Jeff Sacks is wrong--there is wealth in the poor.


Hierarchy sucks, but its suff'rers prevail,

Our souls are a garden more than a jail.





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