Recurrent fantasy of a vain sinner.

Listen to this psalm,
I have been singing since,
Obscure and lost medieval times.

Should you be the dark faced imperatrix
Of my drowning submerged demi-monde,
Joy would fill my edges, and
Bliss would stream out of all my pores.
I am, of course, a beggar,
Scruff and filth make up my grounds,
Though I am not without some capitalistic logic,
Eccentric may it be,
Spare me a penny, a button from your shirt,
And I’ll give you back a dollar, I mean it.

We could conceive the laughing child,
That ephemeral creature,
His golden hair, his famous brow,
His pedestrian appearance,
His spirit untainted by earthly vileness,
Would be none but ours,
And though into the system of our unity,
The knowledge would seep,
Out of this constellation,
Just terror or death could come,
We wouldn’t care, in amour,
Necessity would tempt our vast brains,
Leaving just our blind emotions,
Viscerations, that are always,
Worth the fight.