UNPUBLISHED BUSH TELEGRAPH (The Morning Stat).

Salt on your lips,
Morning comes.
The oboe, the lute
The leprechaun invades sacred space.

Grains of sand scatter away
Stand on the cusp, gather, scatter
The remnants of another day
Gone by. . . Go too.

A witch's cauldron
Stir alongside
Oh Holy Wizard . . .
Thine the cauldron
Thine the spew.

Coreography doth not a
Dancer
Make. A lock of your hair
My love, a lock of your hair.

What crawls, goes bump in the night
Take me away from
Take me far, far away from
Cruelties,
These, these go bump in the night.

Make Sleuth with shields!
God create!
Thine sacred hands
Never tarry, never be still.

Take me Away, Take me .... Away
Warm honey and when the honeycomb
Cold as ice? What warms honey
In the face of bitter vice?

Vengeance, the sole righteous ownership
Man has clutched, made it
A shoddy thing.
Blunt, bitter aloes, bristle on your face.

Take me away, take me away. . .
Forever you and me. . .
At the Last Post, the Evening Sun
Be my forever, come with!