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Sword Focus
Just listen close while sand begins to fall... The hourglass sits and waits for each and all, But no, damn not the little ones we say... No cancer eat away! Focus your tongue, the sword of the Spirit. Come near it, ran not the fickle ones when asked, along our sides. We rode the rides for hours alas and our world was fun. Fun and done were our cars and bars, for now we'd come to the payoff: Years and years of a scoff, when we said, "I believe in Jesus! I believe in you! Jesus and I love you!" But what of the little ones with no hair because God didn't care? Alas, a near breath experience occurred to many, have you the gall to say this or that, that sets one free to say, "Weee! We wee ones believe as well"? But have not those itty bitty little Cindy's and Jimmy's any sin nature or sin standing? Who am I to judge the Judge? So I sit back and relax as that world from which all my dead friends departed falls to spit. I won't see the pit. I've not the kit to quit living lit. I will not open Pandora's Box. I just got that beast shut! All of that mess can kiss my butt. I'm looking for someone to strap in for the ride: bathe in the tide with me, hide when I hide. Marry, make mother, tanning her hyde on our honeymoon night. That's right! But what of the tiny tikes? Fixing their wagon, their skates or bikes? Buying her white Vans, damn Daniel! Or Nikes. Frightening? Only slightly.
